


One Last Warden Story

by missema



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Daddy Issues, Dragon Age Big Bang, F/M, Family History, Fluff and Angst, Gifts, Grey Wardens, Love, Mysteries, Royalty, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missema/pseuds/missema
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a tavern outside of a nameless city, three adventurers take a break from the rigors of their expedition. It is here where Varric Tethras spins a new story, the tale of a woman he's never met, but knows very well. The dwarven businessman with his trusty named crossbow at his side, delights in telling the tale of Marinelle Brosca, famed Warden-Commander and Hero of Ferelden. </p><p>He's never actually met the Paragon, but that won't stop Varric from getting the story right, or at least, keeping the audience entranced. After all, he's heard plenty about her from the best inside source anyone could have on the Warden, her long-time love, King Alistair of Ferelden. Teamed up with the beautiful Isabela, famed Pirate Queen of the Eastern Seas (and her brand new big boat), the three of them are making their way on a journey at Alistair's behest, and on his coin. What they seek lies at the end of a path that Marinelle Brosca set her lover on with a gift years before, and has inadvertently been pushing him toward.</p><p>Spoilers for The Silent Grove</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stories Told at Night

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to keep to Bioware's canon as much as I could, but there were a few places where I was fuzzy on the details, or I made it fit my purposes.
> 
> Warnings for sexual content, unresolved mysteries and spoilers for the dragon age comics.
> 
> I had great artists working with me on this story. Massive amounts of love to both of them.
> 
> Seimaisin (minorearth) made a fanmix for this story that fits so perfectly, it brought tears to my eyes. Click on the track listing at the end of the story to go to her tumblr to download the mix.
> 
> Lyndzapedia drew the incredible art for the story. Click on the pictures to go to her tumblr.

The noise in the tavern around him was just over a murmur, but definitely lower than a roar. Certainly not loud enough for an exciting night, but a pleasantly unmemorable one. Varric was sitting in a bar in a city that wasn't completely unlike his beloved Kirkwall, though it lacked the charm and battle scars. For better or worse, and it was definitely worse after the whole mess with Meredith, he loved that city and missed it whenever he was on the road. The bar he was in might have even been able to masquerade for the Hanged Man if he dimmed his memories a bit. Isabela was standing at the bar, helpfully adding realism to his self-satisfying charade, while he told stories to a group loosely assembled around him. The stories helped, they passed the time and made unfamiliar faces into friendly ones, if not friends. But he wasn't in Kirkwall, in fact, he wasn't quite sure where it was after so many days of travel. These tales weren't like the ones he used to tell, for they were told as amusements for himself almost as much as for the crowd, and of course, the most important element was always missing - Hawke.  
  
He missed Hawke in a way that was painful even to admit, let alone think about. But he still had Isabela, and the two of them had more pressing concerns than to reminisce about their friend. Wherever Hawke was, whatever the Champion of Kirkwall was getting up to, Varric knew better than to worry. The Seekers had questioned and released him, and for a short while, dampened his enthusiasm for talking about Kirkwall. But Hawke, whom he loved and held dear, shone through, the recollections of his time with the Champion of Kirkwall begging to be told once again. He'd told them to great fanfare in Ferelden, but the audience there was so willing, already craving the tales of one of their lost countrymen. This place...wasn't even close to Ferelden, and definitely not the crowd from Denerim, who had hung on his every word. That had been a perfect group. He'd almost thrown in a bit about Hawke mudwrestling the Warden, just to see their reaction, but decided to cut it out at the last moment. A good author was always a good editor.  
  
Besides, technically, he was working, and not just visiting the bar to enjoy the fine atmosphere, or lack thereof. He had Bianca at his side, and this whole excursion was making her more twitchy than usual. Their business left him little in the way of time to enjoy himself, but it couldn't stop him from telling Hawke's stories, adding to the legend at almost every wayside pub and inn that they stay at. It never hurt anyone to be a little infamous - well, maybe it did, but it wouldn't bother Hawke. They'd been in enough scrapes together that Varric knew there was no situation that couldn't be joked, reasoned or fought out by Hawke.  
  
The crowd around him at this bar wasn't really getting into his tales of Hawke, and he had tried out some of his best shit on them. It didn't matter that much - alright, it stung his pride a little, but he didn't really need to talk about the great Champion of Kirkwall. They were far enough away from the Free Marches where Varric wasn't a known quantity, and thus his adventure sagas sounded too close to fantasy, even though vast portions of it was true. But he had a purpose in being here, distraction, feeling out the crowd, things he did naturally, but rarely at the behest of someone else.  
  
Not too far from him sat a dwarven woman, a very comely lass, who really hadn't been listening to him, even though he'd been telling some of his best stuff all night. The kind of stories that made him seem like he wasn't bragging, but he wasn't being too modest either, and dropping a few insider clues to let her know it wasn't all fake. Nothing seemed to catch her fancy, and she'd remained more interested in her ale than she was in his tales. It was her that Varric wanted to impress with his words, to see her eyes filled with the picture he's painted as she listened rapturously to his story coming to a close, begging for a private encore. Tonight, he hadn't been able to keep the fickle crowd under his sway, not many were even paying attention to his words, although he could tell - she was the key. If he won her over, the rest of the crowd would turn his way, he was sure of it. The trick was to get her attention and keep it.  
  
"Pardon me, madam, but you look a little bored, and that simply cannot stand. Allow me to spin you a tale, I've got a good one saved up." The greeting was a little grandiose, but it succeeded in getting her attention. The woman looked up at him, a little cross at his interruption, but she was curious, intrigued, and best of all, a little cynical. A true test. Emptying her mug, she motioned for more, but then turned back to Varric. What he didn't expect was for her to look him squarely in the eye. Stormy blue-green eyes meet his own brown ones, and when he looked in them, he was reminded of the sea that Isabela so loves. This was a surface dwarf, and has been for generations, he could just tell. No one came over to refill her mug yet, and he made note of it the slight delay, though it wasn't busy.  
  
"Don't you know any of our stories? Anything about the Paragons?" She asked in a cool voice. The way she said the word 'our' implied some relationship outside of their shared ancestry, within it lay the promise of winning her over. She's never been to Orzammar, and probably never will. Neither has he, but the difference between them is that he never felt like he's been missing something by not visiting the Stone City.  
  
What she wants is the romance, to hear about the stories of old, the lost grandeur of the dwarva. Those aren't his kind of stories - just thinking about his trips into the Deep Roads made him long for sunlight. The only thing worse was the constant jaunts up Sundermount to talk to the surly elves that Hawke used to drag him on. At least beneath the surface there used to be cities, instead of just wild and untamed nature, waiting to give him a rash or something far worse.  
  
But he's a storyteller, ready to spin, with a request from a lovely maiden. There wasn't much about his trips into the Deep Roads he could make into a good story, being locked in a thaig by Bartrand, then putting a bolt in his brother's chest a few years later just seemed like airing his dirty laundry. He does, however, know what's in his mind, the only Paragon story worth knowing. Varric cocked his head to the side as if thinking, running his tongue over his lips, but his mind is already set on what story to tell to win her over.  
  
"I only know the story of one Paragon, my lady. Hers is an epic love story for all the times. It's got intrigue and deceit, a second chance and the love of a prince, but as I said, it's an epic. Might take a while to tell." Varric smiled, more to himself than to the woman, but it wasn't lost on her. This was the story he'd wanted to tell, and without intending to, she'd given him just the opportunity he'd needed. He couldn't have written a better opening himself.  
  
She pushed her light brown hair from her eyes with a surprisingly dainty hand, returning his smile. "I've got time." She declared. It was almost a challenge, keep her entertained - if he could.  
  
He ordered another ale with a wave of his hand, and chairs scrape against the wooden floorboards as people turn to face him. He'd been correct - this woman was the lynchpin, the others following her lead without thought. "Well settle in, because I'm going to tell you about the Paragon Brosca, Hero of Ferelden. Not the official Orzammar story, but a better one, the way the love of her life sees her. The way her friends know her, the way the Wardens see the conqueror of the Fifth Blight and one of their own."  
  
Even more people turn toward him at the mention of the newest Paragon, a name known to dwarves, elves and humans alike. A tankard of dark amber ale, considerably better than the last batch he was served, sat down in front of him, a few more people drew in around him. Varric sat back in his chair, leaning just slightly, letting a grin unfurl across his face. This was more like it.

[](http://lyndzapedia.tumblr.com)  
  
#####  
  
There's a part of Orzammar that no one likes to talk about, but the whole city would damn near collapse without it. Everyone up in the main part sniffs and turned their noble noses up at the tunnels beneath it, even the least of the castes, the servants, looking down at the wretched souls that inhabited the area. Called Dust Town, it was little more than a collection of falling down shanties and ruined buildings, collapsed entrances to the tainted Deep Roads. It was the only place in Orzammar left to those born to wear a brand on their faces, marking them as outcasts, and the rest of the city treated it like it wasn't even there. It was where the casteless dwarves dwell, and for generations has been the dirty secret of their rigid society. The dwarves that are forced to make their home there do the work in the city that no one else is assigned to do, and they do it because they have no other options. There's always a lot of hard-luck tales down in Dust Town, in life and death these dwarves are denied, for they live their lives laboring with only a faint hope of gaining ground, and die cursed, sure to be rejected by the ancestors and the Stone from whence the dwarves come.  
  
Kalah Brosca was still a pretty, street-smart duster, if a little world-weary, when she met the father of her second daughter - Marinelle. Marinelle was named by her father, for the sea and his dream of going to the surface to actually view such a wonder someday. An endless expanse of water just sitting on the surface, far as the eye can see - it sounded like a fantasy to a dwarf, like it couldn't possibly be true. Kalah wasn't such a dreamer after facing more than a few harsh realities about life, but the man she loved was, and it caused them both heartache. It was their curse that their daughter should take much more after her father, in looks and inclination than either of her parents wanted. When Marinelle was about two or three years old, her parents split up, Kalah calling his determination to go to the surface and become a fisherman foolhardy, and he unable to understand her devotion to a society that called her trash and continually cast her aside.  
  
When he left, Rica, Kalah's eldest daughter, a young girl from a ill-fated tryst with a warrior, was about seven years older than Marinelle. It was Rica who had to console her younger sister, who cried incessantly after he left. It was then that Kalah turned to drink for her comforts, and left Marinelle in Rica's care. Despite the gap in their ages the two sisters were close, Rica becoming both sister and mother figure to the young girl. What Rica suffered in the name of protecting Marinelle, she didn't share, but everyone knew that both girls sometimes sported black eyes or bruises after Kalah had taken to drink. Mindful of their own problems, the other residents of Dust Town didn't acknowledge the beatings, as was the way of the people there. Don't get involved, keep your head down - it was the mantra of a miserable existence.  
  
Most nights saw their mother passed out after drinking too much of the cheap moss wine she favored. After the girls put her to bed, they had nothing to do but go to bed themselves, with little or no food for their dinner. Rica swept out streets for the occasional coin, and Marinelle had taken to sneaking food from the stands whenever she could go into the Commons, which wasn't often. Her purloined goods never amounted to much, a bit of lichen bread here, a handful of mushrooms to share with Rica, who chastised her for stealing, but never turned down an offering of food.  
  
Speaking in whispers, the two lay next to each other on a dirty floor, sharing a nest of ragged blankets.  
  
"Why don't we like humans?" Marinelle asked quietly.  
  
Earlier that night, she'd been backhanded by Kalah for asking about her father, told that he was a fool duster who loved humans more than his own kind. It hurt to think that her father was someplace with the humans, not missing her at all. Rica had calmed her down and wiped the tears away, keeping her out of their mother's attention as she ranted and raved in her drunken stupor, before passing out. Both girls had eased the stinking body of their mother onto the stone bed, and then moved as far away from her as possible. No one would risk waking Kalah before she'd slept off the wine.  
  
There was also talk, the kinds of things a child hears but doesn't understand. Dwarves had little regard for the surface races, but seemed to disdain humans more than elves, and often spoke of their surface lives with contempt. Indeed, few humans were allowed into Orzammar, and Rica had once told her stories of how the whole city had shone and sparkled in anticipation of King Maric of Ferelden, but she'd not seen him. Marinelle had never even seen her king - King Endrin - let alone dreamed of seeing a human king. It seemed strange that they would even have kings like the dwarva did, with the way people talked about them, Marinelle thought humans could hardly be little more than barbarians.  
  
"I don't think it's that dwarves don't like them," Rica started, after thinking for a moment, "it's more like we don't understand them. We probably seem just as strange to them, but its all we know."  
  
"What's on the surface?" Marinelle asked in a whisper.  
  
"There's tales of a big openness called sky, no ceiling at all out there. Nothing to protect them from above." Rica shivered at the thought. "It sounds scary, but I don't know, promising in some ways. No castes at all, that's why some of the casteless leave for the surface. There's more land up there than there's left down here, and no darkspawn to bother them. Lots of humans and elves to be sure, but I don't know much else."  
  
"I'm going to go there someday." Marinelle stuck out her chin in the darkness, full of childish determination. Kalah had backhanded her for saying that before, and she'd denied that she wanted to go, but with Rica she was honest and bold.  
  
"Maybe you will." Rica said. "But now let's just stay here and sleep." Curling in close to her sister, the pair of them quieted, Marinelle sniffling in her sleep from the tears she shed earlier.  
  
One thing became clear to both Rica and her mother as they watched the youngest daughter grow up. Unlike the two of them, who made money by sweeping out streets and doing odd jobs, Marinelle was a fighter. Tough and crafty, she learned to pick locks with her buddy Leske and ran the streets. When she was old enough, the Carta came calling and Marinelle was ready to crack some heads and make what she called 'some real money'. She was sixteen when she started, and though they'd never eaten better, Rica worried constantly about her sister's safety. Two years passed by quickly, with Marinelle's ill-earned coin putting food on the table. She forgot her childhood thoughts of living on the surface or finding her father - survival took precedence over dreams.  
  
However horrid Dust Town seemed to outsiders, it was a neighborhood like many others. The residents were bound by a sense of community and shared scorn, and they helped each other out when they could. Like Rica, Marinelle grew up to be an attractive young woman, and she favored her father as much as Rica resembled their mother. The subtle red streaks that colored her chin length dark brown hair was the only noticeable tie to her mother, her honey-colored skin and large dark eyes looked more like her absent father, the dwarven fisherman.  
  
A snort from the assembled crowd made Varric look up from telling his tale, breaking his concentration. It wasn't the lovely dwarven mistress for once, but rather a loutish looking young man who was looking into his mug. He didn't know if the interruption had been intentional or not, but he treated it as such. A good showman used every opportunity, especially if he hasn't planned it himself. It lent personality and authenticity to his tale.  
  
"Why do I tell you this?" Varric asked cannily, knowing that none would muster up an answer. "Because our Lady Paragon was always a dreamer, and it was essential to her earliest survival, a trait passed on from her father. It serves her well to this day, and to omit her charming curiosity and ability to see an abundant future does her character a disservice."  
  
Satisfied that his little speech would keep the crowd in check, he moved on.  
  
"So where were we, oh yes. I won't bother to tell of you all of her duty to the crime lord Beraht, whom she later slew. Or of the Grand Proving she entered to become the victor, besting the pick of the warrior caste - the bards sing that story too often." He began anew, plunging back into his tale. Varric had a good feeling about this place, or rather, about this crowd. Should anything happen on his little expedition, they'd remember him.


	2. All on the Surface

The Grey Wardens saved her from certain death at the hands of the angry nobles, guardsmen and Jarvia, and inadvertently fulfilled her childhood dream of seeing the surface in the process. Above ground Marinelle wondered at the wide world around her, breathing in a deep breath of air once she left the grand doors of Orzammar. Even the air on the surface felt different, cooler, and she could taste the scent of nature on it as she filled her lungs again and again. After years in the stuffy, overcrowded city, living in dirt and filth, just breathing in the air on the surface was an experience.   
  
She took her first look up, almost brave, checking to make sure she wouldn't fall upwards and away from the comforts of earth. Satisfied that she would stay in place, she started walking behind Duncan, head swiveling as she looked around her.The sky was amazing, dizzyingly vast and overwhelming, but still amazing, a dark greyish blue when they left, so far away, yet seeming so close. She stuck her hand out to touch it, but fell woefully short, earning a chuckle from Duncan beside her.   
  
Light trickled through the trees, making flitting shadows around them as they started down the mountain. The breeze blew and she shivered, belatedly realizing that the surface was cold, so cold, compared to Orzammar. Every step beneath her was icy, her feet clad in leather boots that barely kept her warmth in as she trod upon the frozen ground. Breathing out, her own air was white and misty in front of her face before it dissipated. Such a bewilderment that she should come to the surface and be able to see her own breath! A million little amusements awaited her discovery, sights and sounds, smells and tastes, the light moving overhead, lengthening their shadows until Marinelle witnessed the colorful blaze of her first sunset.  
  
Her departure felt like a triumph in a way, being able to come to the surface as a respected Grey Warden, but part of her was desperately sad that it had come to this, her death or the Wardens, and still no place for her in home. Before she'd left, she had no time to see her mother, though she didn't really know if Kalah would be glad she was a Warden or just simply pleased that she was gone. Those guards had been so eager to get rid of her - treated like trash up until the very end. She hoped that Rica would be alright there without her, but from the sound of it, Rica had found herself a patron. Sighing, Marinelle ignored the sadness that thought brought her. Hopefully, a patron would be enough to keep Rica safe. Her mother, she didn't worry about. Somehow, Kalah had always been able to put herself first.  
  
But the surface held too many oddities to let sorrow to consume her, and Duncan was explaining to her that they had a job to do once they reached their destination. As they walked along, he talked with her, expounding on the history of his order, and patiently waiting while she smelled flowers growing from dirt, and plucked ripe, red berries from spiny bushes nearby their path. Trees were amazing, shady and tall, and smelled so clean! Little animals that weren't Deep Stalkers or nugs ran by them, scurrying along to places out of sight, flying overhead and warbling in that vast sky. She walked slowly and stopped often, running to catch up with Duncan's long strides as he led her on to Ostagar. He made some allowances, sharing with her when he knew the names of the flowers or birds that sang out from high above her head. Water gurgled in brooks, pooled in large lakes, ran in quick moving rivers, clear and filled with fish, bluish and reflecting the light, or brown and murky as she passed it. This was nothing like the place she'd heard so many strange and bewildering tales about.  
  
During the nights, she sat out looking up at the star strewn sky in wonder. Nothing in her life had ever prepared her for this, not even all of Rica's prodding about learning and making her mark. The beautiful, distant twinkling points of light often made her feel lonely, knowing that the people she loved and had left behind, Rica and Leske, would likely never behold such a sight. Leske - her heart ached for him, and she wished that somehow, he could find a way out of Dust Town. With Beraht gone, maybe he would or perhaps Rica could help take care of him for her. She knew how important Leske was to Marinelle.  
  
There had never been anything between her and Leske, he'd always had an eye for Rica, treating Marinelle like a sister most of the time. But there was nothing was too sacred to lose in Dust Town, and she wasn't virginal. There had been other dusters, and she'd been stupid and hotheaded more than once, her mouth getting her into trouble. Marinelle lost her own virginity in a rash bet, a game of Diamondback that got way over her head. As experiences go, it wasn't entirely unpleasant, but disabused her of thinking of sex in any romantic terms. Sex was sex, and while she liked it well enough, it was different than romantic love, which was one of the few experiences that she would likely never have found in Dust Town.  
  
"What are the dwarva on the surface like? Do they get along with humans and elves?" Marinelle asked Duncan as they traveled. She hurried to keep up with him, taking two steps for every one of his. Every night, her legs ached from the pace they kept, but she didn't complain. She wouldn't, not so long as she could deal with the pain. It wouldn't do to continuously whine to the person who'd kept her from being executed. Besides, it was a long trip to Ostagar, and she was sure that it wasn't much easier for him.  
  
Duncan was thoughtful as he formed a response. "I could say that they are as varied as their subterranean counterparts, but I don't think that's what you meant." He scratched at his beard before continuing, looking off into the distance. It was so strange to her that his beard seemed to mean nothing, it just sat there on his face, not braided or arranged in any way. She liked it, his beard made him seem less alien, more like a dwarf, albeit a very tall and messy one.  
  
"Though I know little about their daily lives, I would say that surface dwarves for the most part live by their wits, as you did. There are more opportunities here on the surface, but less familiarity. Many who come from Orzammar try to continue as if they are still in the Stone City, practicing the trades passed down through generations. Others hire themselves out as mercenaries or live as bandits."  
  
"Oh." Marinelle wondered, for the first time since she'd come above ground, what had happened to her father. Did he become a mercenary, using his Dust Town acquired skills to fight, or had he fulfilled his dream of becoming a fisherman? Maybe he'd combined the two and wound up a pirate. She might never know.  
  
"Does this trouble you?" Duncan asked, not unkindly.  
  
"No, I just hadn't thought of it much. It makes sense that people fall into old patterns, still, I hope to see a dwarven fisherman or sailor one day."  
  
"So do I." Duncan said, smiling. "And I don't know of any particular grievance with humans or elves. I suspect surface dwarves get along with humans out of necessity, though I've never heard of any animosity between the groups." He said diplomatically.  
  
"Oh, well. Thank you. I was just wondering." Marinelle said. It was strange to think of a city where she would see humans, dwarves and elves all living together, but that was how life was on the surface. Come to think of it, she'd never even seen an elf before, but she knew some of their poetry from hearing Rica reciting it for practice. It was all a lot for her to understand and take in. There was a whole world, or several, for her to get to know, and Marinelle was glad that she'd left Orzammar.  
  
Duncan remained open to her questions and queries as they ventured on. He quickly learned how to gauge her, and often offered up explanations before she could ask. As a companion, he was amiable if a little distant, and she remembered that he was the Commander of the Wardens in Ferelden. With that in mind, she tried to be restrained, or at least respectful in her enthusiasm, though she worried that she failed a few times.  
  
They spoke more about the darkspawn and their history as they approached Ostagar, Marinelle little knowing that her short time at the old fortress would so alter her new destiny, changing all that she'd pictured since she'd come to the surface. Preparations for the battle were nearly completed when they arrived, and she was dispatched to find a junior Grey Warden (she wasn't even aware that they had junior members) while Duncan worked.  
  
After exploring the camp site, and talking to General Loghain and King Cailan's guard, she went off to find this other Warden. His name was Alistair, and she found him most auspiciously delivering his message to a mage. This was perfect - Marinelle had never once even met someone she knew was a mage! The robed man, however, was surly at Alistair's request, and stomped away before she could ask him to shoot flame from his hands. No duster she'd known had ever seen magic, actual magic being done, but that mage probably wouldn't have been the best pick for her request. It would have been wonderful to see, she'd always hoped to see magic in action. She'd already tried her luck running past the guards outside the mage camp a few times, but was always caught before she got too far in.  
  
Alistair, as it transpired, was talkative and helpful, willing to speak at length about almost everything other them himself. They had a while before they had to meet Duncan, and Marinelle didn't waste the time, her peppering him a load of questions that she hadn't thought to ask on the way down. She liked him, he joked easily but answered her honestly. After spending all her time talking to Duncan, with his measured, thoughtful responses, it was sort of refreshing to meet someone that sometimes just answered her straight off.  
  
"You're certainly enthusiastic." Alistair noted as they walked together towards Duncan's fire. He'd gently pointed out that they'd been talking for long enough that the sun had changed position, and grinning at her amazement that he could tell time by the sun.  
  
"Well, one of us has to be." She joked.   
  
"I don't think enthusiasm will serve me well in battle, but it might you."  
  
"Are you scared?" She asked quietly. Alistair stopped walking, and after a few paces she did too, waiting for his answer.  
  
"I don't know if I am scared about the battle itself, but what it means for Ferelden, then yes. The Blight would ruin this land, taint everything. I only know Ferelden, it's my home and I'd hate to see it lost." He answered.  
  
She wanted to comfort him, to reach out a hand and lay it on his arm to reassure him. The earnest concern, not for himself but for his country, for all that he knew and didn't want to lose, was downright touching. In Dust Town, most people were just concerned about themselves, or their few loved ones. There was nothing bigger than that at stake, especially since they couldn't fight the darkspawn like the warrior caste. Marinelle hoped, deeply wanted in that moment to be his friend, even though she'd scarcely met him an hour before. Whatever trance held him as he spoke softly broke, and he shook himself out of it and began to walk again. "Come on," he said, "Duncan's waiting for us."  
  
  
It was at this point in the story where Varric grew grave. "There were terrible losses at Ostagar, none moreso than King Cailan and the Grey Wardens, who were later painted as traitors. But you don't need me to remind you all of the tragedy at Ostagar, or even to tell the Warden's story of the reunification of Ferelden." Varric said, sitting back in his chair. He had them now, they were hanging on his every word, even Isabela was tilted towards him, listening.   
  
Varric leaned into the crowd and intoned in a deep voice. "Our Paragon and the Warden Prince spent all their nights together on the road, but that was years ago, before the people of Ferelden knew Alistair to be a prince of the blood. Most people think the Blight the true story of the Warden, but ask yourself, have you heard a story about her recent triumphs? Surely a heroine such as her is still out there, saving Thedas time and again. Ah, but so few of us know what she did after she ended the Blight and wiped out the darkspawn incursion in Amaranthine. If we skip ahead to then, I promise you'll hear a better story."  
  
This was what he wanted to talk about, not rehash the Warden's tale. Almost anyone could do that - he'd even seen a troupe acting it out when they'd been docked in Denerim. The players hadn't done the Warden justice, at least, not according to Isabela. While the tale of the Blight was certainly thrilling, there was more, so much more, details that he'd just learned. He needed to tell this story, not just so they would know, but so he could understand it all. Smiling, he briefly thought of the last epic tale he'd told, dragged in by the Seekers to relate Hawke's tale to Cassandra. He wondered if it had helped her, or anyone find Hawke. Hopefully this tale would have a better ending than that last one.  
  
"Now, this is where things get interesting." Varric said, gearing himself up. He rubbed his palms together in anticipation, the eager eyes around him watching his every movement. "It all starts, of course, back in Denerim. The Warden had become Commander of the Grey, and her love, now King Alistair was stuck dealing with politics and when he would have preferred darkspawn."  
  
#####  
  
Becoming the King of Ferelden wasn't his first choice of vocation, but there were times that Alistair actually liked it. He could ask the kitchens to send up anything - absolutely anything he wanted, and just they brought it to him! King wasn't so bad when he got to eat all the best cheeses or share a pie in a featherbed with Marinelle. The memory of that somewhat sticky occasion made him smile, and miss her just a little bit more. But there were other instances, occurrences far too often for his liking, when he did something wrong, or was unspeakably awkward and no one could point it out, because he was after all, their king.  
  
There was so much to just know, to memorize about the people he dealt with. He supposed it would have been easier to been born to it, like Cailan, but he had to make due with what he had. Right now, that wasn't much besides Teagan, Eamon and Lady Isolde, who hadn't stopped giving him dirty looks just because he was now king. It vexed him that she seemed so determined to hang onto that old dislike, but he didn't have time to worry about her - ever, but especially not now.  
  
As he'd told Marinelle when he so reluctantly left her in Amaranthine, he was needed in the bannorn, to deal with the disgruntled landowners there. Wynne and a few other mages were coming with him, to try and see if they could lend magic to help speed along the recovery of the blighted lands. It was his hope that Wynne would help soothe peoples fears about magic, which had been renewed by the continued troubles with darkspawn. It was funny, but after the Blight, he'd become more sure that it was greed and not magic, that was the true folly of man.   
  
Whatever people argued or said about him, what they were most concerned about was their livelihood, and he understood that. Understanding, however, did not give way to a solution, and he had little more than sympathy for them at the moment, which did not endear him to many. It was a constant uphill battle to get Ferelden back together after the Blight, and his days were just as long now as they had been during the war. Sometimes he preferred an enemy he could fight instead of one the required patience and diplomacy. More often that not, he simply missed his other Warden. For him, nothing was as reassuring as having her at his side.  
  
"King Alistair." Wynne's voice came to him from across the room. She was dressed in her familiar red Circle robes, and giving him a kindly smile as she approached. "Are you ready to leave?"  
  
"I suppose I'm as ready as I can be." He sighed. "I don't know what I can do to help these people. I keep thinking that Cailan might have done better, but he wouldn't know any more than I do about this. I'm a warrior, not a negotiator, and I have no idea what to do to calm them. I left all that up to Elle during the Blight."   
  
Wynne nodded but said nothing, and he went on. "Sometimes it all feels like an act, like they can see straight through me. Before I worried about how to keep the land from evil and now I worry about what fork to use to keep the nobles from snickering behind my back."  
  
"My king, believe me when I say that I have every confidence in you. Without you, your lady Warden wouldn't have been able to unite the land to end the Blight. The rest of it, knowing what to do, what protocols to use, will come in time." She said, patting his arm as she did.  
  
"They'll still look down on me." He whined.  
  
"That's just what they do for fun. Not one of them is going to risk getting on your bad side - your battle prowess is well known. None of them can boast of being one of the Grey Wardens that ended the Blight. In the end, you're still king, and have to do what you can for them."  
  
"I guess that's all anyone can do." He agreed. Though he wasn't entirely convinced, he had a job to do, and there was no sense in putting it off any further. Alistair held out his arm for Wynne, and she accepted it with her another smile, one meant to put him at ease. It did just that, and he found it was almost as reassuring as having Marinelle there with him, not quite, but almost. Together the two of them walked to the door, and out to where a carriage was waiting to take them to the bannorn.


	3. After Amaranthine

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Too many months later, Marinelle came back to Denerim after touring the arling one last time. Leaving Amaranthine was nearly sentimental for her, after working so hard to defend it, but when it came down to it, she couldn't say she actually felt anything other than relief. The people there weren't entirely happy with her, but she'd kept them alive and with her soldiers protecting the farms, fed. As much time she she'd spent there, the place had never gotten to feel like more than just a stop, but she could think of several reasons for that, most of them having to do with Alistair's absence.  
  
The two of them had missed each other keenly during their time apart, a fact that the other Wardens had picked up on almost immediately. Oghren had given them enough backstory that they seemed to know everything about her and Alistair during the Blight, and had taken to teasing her. She'd almost choked on her tea the day Velanna made a sing-song comment as a letter arrived for Marinelle bearing the royal seal. Anders had been bawdy, but sweet in his ribbing, and Nathaniel sly. Oghren was as ever overt and crass, while Velanna and Sigrun teamed up one night to pressure her for details. In her loneliness, she'd happily obliged them, glad for a reason to talk about Alistair. Only Justice had abstained, frowning when Anders tried to include him, saying that it wasn't right to jest with the Commander.  
  
She'd last seen them all weeks ago, before she toured the arling, working her way round to the port of Amaranthine so she could take ship. Her time on the road had been solitary, save for a lone knight that joined up with her and collected letters from the arling bound for Denerim and parts beyond. Despite the solitude, it had been a good journey, quick and without much incident, and they arrived without injury. Parting with the knight at the city docks, Marinelle headed straight for the palace.  
  
"I could swear thas the Hero of Ferelden." A roughly accented voice said from behind her, and Marinelle ducked her head, moving quickly through the crowd on the docks. It was the first time in a very long time she cursed her brand, the mark making her more recognizable. Winding her way through the sunlit docks, she dodged people left and right, determined not to be noticed. She only allowed herself one fleeting look back at the sea, her fondness for the water still intact, despite how sick she'd gotten during the first day of their sea journey.  
  
Hurrying towards the palace, she walked swiftly through the city, amazed at how much it had changed and been rebuilt in her absence. Alistair had been busy, getting people back to work and rebuilding homes as he'd promised just after the Battle of Denerim. The market square was as robust as ever, and she could hear people hawking their wares even after she'd passed through it. She looked around for the Orlesian woman that had told her about running from the chevaliers, but didn't see her stall of colorful bottles of scents. There was someone new taking up the spot, but Master Ignacio from the Crows still stood in his usual place. Ignacio nodded her at as she went by, and she ducked her head lower, pressing on.  
  
She arrived at the Royal Palace with little fanfare, admitted without any trouble. She was known by nearly everyone, commoner, guards and nobles alike. She asked the few guards that saw her to keep her return quiet for now. She wanted to surprise Alistair, if she could. He knew she was coming of course, but not exactly when. Her things must have arrived well before her, the bulk of it sent straight on from Vigil's Keep.  
  
The castle was cold - it was a strange thing for Marinelle to notice, having just come from another drafty old fortress in Ferelden. Her Warden blood usually kept her quite warm, but she shivered as she walked through the halls. It was early afternoon, just past luncheon, pale light streaming through the windows as she roaming the halls, in search of something more important than sustenance.  
  
How long it had been for them, not so much in time as it had been in experience. Almost two years had passed since that fateful day at Ostagar when they'd first met, but more than that, their lives had changed so irrevocably in such a relatively short amount of time. She'd been cast out of Orzammar for impersonating a warrior, and he was a new Warden, the newest save for her. It seemed so far away, a world with King Cailan and the hope of a new life on the surface, a battle to end the threat for once and all, planned by the greatest strategist in Ferelden. Life since had handed her horrors on an almost daily basis, making her even more thankful for the man she sought, who brought the light that balanced it.  
  
Shivering, she went up to a maid, the woman nearly invisible as she scrubbed out a corner of stone floor. Maids saw all but said nothing, and would surely know at least in which direction she should be heading. It was too chilly to just wander around, hoping to run into Alistair.  
  
"Excuse me, but where may I find the king?" Marinelle queried.  
  
"Not here, unless you're looking for the king of dustbins." The woman muttered irritably at her before standing up and turning around to see who it was that had spoken to her. "Oh, my lady. Maker, forgive me, it's the Hero of Ferelden. I didn't mean nothin' by it, my lady, really I didn't. But I've not seen the King since this morning. Perhaps he's still with Arl Teagan, in his study." The maid said in a apologetic rush, her head half-bowed as she did.  
  
"Thank you." Marinelle said, nodding at the woman. She bobbed a curtsy in response, and kept her head down.  
  
At first, such a response used to bother her. Once a casteless dwarf and a member of no society, Marinelle wasn't one to stand on ceremony. But she soon learned the mistake of being too friendly with people who didn't necessitate it. She was polite to everyone as a rule, but had learned to keep her distance. There had been a chamber maid that had sold some of her things as 'True Relics of the Hero of Ferelden' after gaining her trust. An enthusiastic fan whom she saw almost daily and had earned a sort of long-suffering amusement from her, until he was caught sneaking into the palace in his nightclothes, pleading that he just wanted to warm her bed.  
  
Zevran had put her on her defense when it came to fanatics, assassins loved the guise of the overeager and slightly off-kilter, using the melodrama of a distraction to get in and out undetected. She knew it too, she was after all trained by Zevran as an assassin, but somehow it had never occurred to her that she might be targeted again. At least these people had proven to be relatively harmless, and not Antivan Crows.  
  
The guards standing outside the study let her pass without a word, and she opened the door to find Alistair and Teagan, just as the maid told her. They were deep in conversation, several books spread open on the desk in front of them, and stacked in deep piles next to it. Alistair bent to the side as he listened to Teagan talking, rummaging through one of the piles to find a book. The afternoon light caught his hair as he righted himself, and she thought she might have seen a spark of silver mixed in with the color. It made her smile.  
  
"I think I read that in this one? Maybe? It's all so damn confusing. There's no need for so many laws. Well, there is, but it makes it hard to get anything done." He mumbled as he flipped through the book. He went to put it down again, to seeking answers in another tome and bent to reach it. Once upright again, he noticed her standing just inside the doorway, smiling at him as she observed in silence. Teagan turned around as well, sure that the dreamy look on Alistair's face wasn't intended for him.  
  
"Elle." He breathed her nickname, the one that only he used, hardly daring to believe she was standing in front of him. She'd been a long time in Amaranthine, longer than either of them had expected.  
  
She was aware Teagan was still in the room, but there was no one else in that moment, just his smile. Within seconds, Alistair was at her side, hugging her to him. "Welcome home." He said, running a hand through the chin length tangles she called hair. Sure that she must look terrible, she chided herself for not going to her rooms before coming to find him. Alistair didn't seem as if he minded at all what she looked like, concerned only with locking her in his arms until breathing became laborious.  
  
"It's good to be back, and better to be with you." She said, returning his hug with equal force.  
  
They weren't in the habit of kissing in front of others anymore - not that he'd been that keen on it before. Officially, King Alistair was unmarried, and she was simply the chancellor to the Crown. Too many people watched their movements, and though she was sure Teagan would have understood, Marinelle contented herself with his hug, the brush of his lips against her cheek, knowing that he'd truly welcome her home in private.  
  
After giving Teagan a perfunctory greeting, she made her excuses, citing exhaustion and retreated to the bedroom that was formally Alistair's but was truly a shared space. The trunk she'd sent ahead was already in the room waiting for her, as were the things she'd left behind. It was mostly dresses and finery, things that she had need of in the Royal Palace but little cause to take with her on the road.  
  
While she waited for Alistair, she had a bath drawn and lingered in it, relishing the hot water. Vigil's Keep had offered few comforts and Marinelle basked in the luxuries offered in Denerim. After bathing, she napped and ate, Alistair joining her for the latter, his hearty appetite still as impressive as when they'd met. Ravenous for more than simple food, Alistair turned to her, his intent obvious. They were in his private sitting room, his royal bed just beyond the next door. When Alistair left to give orders to the guards just outside, she made her way to the bedroom.  
  
It was pure luxury to recline against his cool silk sheets, to feel his fingers deftly tugging at her dress as she held him close. Marinelle closed her eyes, to enjoy the sensations, her hands traveling over his chest, tracing the scars she knew by rote, and feeling his touch in return. She felt his fingers drift over her skin with the lightest touch, and shivered, anticipation laced desire heightening her senses. It was so achingly familiar, and yet missed, too long absent.  
  
"You can't imagine how I've missed you." He growled in a low voice, a needy sound in her ear. In response, she could do nothing but moan against his skin. "We've never been apart like this."  
  
"Is that true?" She asked, the words escaping her before she had time to consider them.  
  
"We haven't been apart since we met, you know that. I even went to Orzammar with you." He said. Alistair's words were the truth - they hadn't been apart since that night before Ostagar until her time in Amaranthine. It was strange to realize just how long they'd spent in each other's company.  
  
It was only natural that she missed him, for she'd known him longer than anyone else on the surface. And she loved him, loved him more than anyone ever in her life, save for Rica. A sisterly love was no comparison to the passion she felt for Alistair, passion that made her crave his every touch, that sometimes made her cry with relief once he'd sheathed himself in her. They'd always felt so right together, despite all of their differences.  
  
For all his ardor, he was tender with her that night. After their extended absence, she expected a fiercer touch, but he reigned in the urgent needs of flesh to attend to the absences in heart. His sweetness brought out her own, and Marinelle dampened her urge to rush and rut in response to his gentle caresses. The kisses she placed on his mouth started out as little more than teases, taking her time and remembering the feel of his lips against her own.  
  
She could feel his body heat up underneath hers as she kissed him, his hand caressing her back and trailing through her hair, but never rushing her. They were still partially clothed, his shirt was unbuttoned and open, but he had shed his breeches already, her dress was off but she still wore underclothes. Reasoning that he had much more to take off than she did, Marinelle helped him along, lips and tongue following her hands and fingers as they pushed the shirt off his body, exposing a chest with a dusting of reddish blond hair across it.  
  
He lifted her atop him, eyes dark and heavy as he lay against the bed. She could feel his strained breathing, short and shallow. She wanted his restraint to break finally, for him to welcome her home as she'd wanted to in his office today. Instead of teasing, of waiting even longer, she sank down onto him, hardness filling her so perfectly she felt her breath catch in her chest. How could she have gone without him for so long?  
  
Alistair hissed through gritted teeth when she'd impaled herself on him, but was rocking beneath her, unable to keep still. His hips rolled carefully at first, he was always so careful, so considerate even when she wasn't. They moved together quickly, picking up pace, knowing what was needed, attuned to one another.  
  
She needed this, him, every rough thrust that made her cry and ache, spurring her on further. Digging fingers into his shoulders, she slammed herself down on him, her hips to his. There would be fingerprint bruises on him in the morning, but neither cared. It was rough and hard, needy and feral between them now. Gone was the earlier delicacy, all that restraint abandoned to reveal naught but hunger. Her breath came in ragged gasps that tore at her chest, but she couldn't stop, couldn't abandon the frenzy even for a moment because she was too close. His hands pressed hard into her arse and hips, guiding her back and forth, as if her own speed could never be enough for the both of them. There wasn't a moment to spare, and it was she that shattered first, when all the heat and roughness came to crescendo within her body, turning the darkness around them into blinding white light. She clenched him within her, invisible muscles all but too much for him.  
  
What pushed him over was the sound, his strangled name as her eyes shone with ecstasy. There was no point in holding on after that, not when it was so tortuously lovely to give in. Gasping, he arched into her as far as he could, and let go, his deeper, raspier voice filling the chamber as he did.  
  
Panting, they stayed together, Marinelle laying on his chest as they both came down. Letting the feeling wash over her, she contented herself with listening to Alistair's heartbeat thudding in his chest as she caught her breath. Once she could breathe again, languor filling her, she slid off of him, cooling her still heated skin on the spot next to him.  
  
"So, my king," she began, an idle finger tracing shapes against his skin as Alistair chuckled softly at the formality of her words, "how fares thy kingdom?"  
  
He groaned, and delayed by kissing the soft skin of her stomach, his lips tracing a scar she'd gotten during the Blight. He seemed to like to kiss that one, and knew just where to press down to make her gasp. It didn't distract her, not enough for his liking. Sighing, he looked up at her from her muscled abdomen, hazel eyes unhappy as he answered. "It's been made clear to me that I am not the most beloved ruler that Ferelden has ever seen." He said. "But that doesn't matter so much as getting people the support they need. Unfortunately a lot of the bannorn was Blighted, and without that farmland, people are going hungry."  
  
She understood too well - this was the same problem she'd faced in Amaranthine, and had decided to send her soldiers to defend Eddelbrek's lands, knowing that without food from his farms, everyone in the city starve, including her soldiers. It was like being in a leaky boat with only enough resources to patch a few holes and no sight of land.  
  
"And then there is the mess of debt from the civil war, the lack of smiths to replenish the soldiers we do have, and the sad state of the army. Of course, add to that the same old troubles with the Circle and the Chantry, and relations with Orlais are growing strained. I think they'd love to retake their old territory, and I don't know if we could win, should an army of chevaliers show up tomorrow. Wynne left for Orlais, and she said she'd send a report. That's the best I can do for now." He sighed wearily, exhausting himself just listing the problems. "And I've been worried about you and the situation up north."  
  
"I handled that." Marinelle frowned, displeased that he worried himself about something that she got under control.  
  
"I know, and I had every confidence in you, love, but it didn't stop me from worrying. Talking darkspawn, I can't believe it. I'll have to read your report."  
  
She stroked his back in a comforting way, willing her head not to spin as she thought on all that he'd mentioned. There was more, much more, she knew that every minor squabble and petty battle was being touted as of importance, and people were filing for recompense for their useless tainted lands and destroyed homes, further draining the already light purse of Ferelden. Trade would have shored up some of the difference, had there been anything to trade. Orzammar was sending as much aid as they could at her request, and a few other nations had given supplies. Teagan was spearheading some of the negotiations himself, she didn't think he'd so much as set foot in his arling since he'd come to Denerim for Alistair's coronation.  
  
They lay together without speaking, Alistair extinguishing the light from the bedside candle. Plunging the room into velvety seclusion, he pulled her close to him, dragged lazy fingers over her skin until drowsiness distracted him. They fell into a comfortable slumber, sleeping the way they always did, twisted together with the blankets pushed mostly off of them. Her Grey Warden warmth returned in full force, and together, she and Alistair kept each other warm.  
  
In the morning Marinelle awakened to sunlight streaming through the window and Alistair's limbs intertwined with her own. The sounds of his snuffling snores was near her ears, and she was glad she didn't find herself alone, and snuggled in next to his warm, bare chest. Alistair must have told the servants not to disturb them, because no one had roused them, though it was well into morning. For that small mercy, she was grateful. Amaranthine hadn't been too much of a hardship in light of all that they'd endured during the Blight, but she'd acutely felt his absence and was grateful to have a few peaceful moments with him. There was so much to be said for fighting darkspawn with your lover by your side.  
  
It was her custom to give him a gift of wherever they traveled, a small reminder generally, and this time she thought she'd found a good one. It was a painting, much like the one she'd once given Sten, of Moira the Rebel Queen, mother to King Maric, and Alistair's grandmother. He'd never known her, of course, but Calian hadn't either, the rebel queen had been slaughtered by traitors wanting to turn her over to Orlesians when Maric was a young man. That, however, wasn't the point of the gift.  
  
Alistair had long been disconnected from his heritage, vacillating between despising and curiosity about his father, King Maric the Savior. What he wondered about his bloodline, she didn't know, but he held Eamon and Teagan close to him, the ties of adopted family strengthened by his time on the throne.  
  
And though she rarely paid it any mind, he put an effort into making her feel like family too. It was Alistair that went with her to Orzammar just after being crowned king and pushed her to really found a house. Though she didn't head it, she had a capable steward there and a motley crew of dwarves under her banner, mostly former casteless that had joined House Marinelle, taking her first name as their surname. Her sister was now a noble in her own right, and could marry King Bhelen if she so chose.  
  
But it was he that reminded her of the ties with her family, even her mother, Kalah, who still wallowed in drink. Alistair referred to her as his wife in private, and bestowed upon her all the rank and privilege he was able to give. She was queen in all but name, though she never wanted any more responsibility than she already had.  
  
The painting was one of the few things she'd ever been able to do for him and his family, and it made her happy. She'd found it amongst the things she'd seized in Amaranthine, it was her right as Arlessa to go through the belongings of the people that had taken arms against her and thusly broken their oath to her as their liege. It was in with the things of Lord Guy, and she had taken it, not only for the picture but for the inscription on the back.  
  
Tired of waiting, Marinelle woke Alistair with a kiss, then another, as she let her hands run across his bare skin. Alistair woke up after the first kiss, but let her continue for a little while longer before returning her affections. Lazily, he threaded a hand through her hair and brought her close to him, shifting her so she was atop him. She woke him up thoroughly, sinking down onto his morning hardness with little urging, silently praising the Grey Warden stamina he still retained.  
  
Afterwards, their breakfast came, and she took the time to give him her gift. He handled it gingerly, his fingers covered with the sticky remnants of jam as she handed him the wrapped package. Stripping the paper from it, Alistair gazed silently at the flame-haired likeness of a grandmother murdered many years ago, Moira the Rebel Queen. Marinelle knew the story just as well as he did, the rightful queen of Ferelden, betrayed by those she considered allies who planned to turn Maric over to the Orlesians.  
  
She feared that her gift wasn't going over the way she'd planned. Alistair was frowning, looking at the painting as if it reminded him of a painful memory. He hadn't said anything - not thank you or even made a wry comment, which was unlike him.  
  
"Turn it over." Marinelle instructed.  
  
"For my son, Maric, may the blood of Calenhad the Great forever live on." Alistair read out in an awed voice. He was silent for a long moment after, and she didn't intrude on his thoughts.  
  
"I've never seen anything like this before. Do you think it was written in her hand?" He asked, gazing at the faded ink on the back.  
  
"We can't be sure, but it was meant for Maric, as a gift from mother to son. I thought it was an important piece of your heritage, and surely something that needs to be in the Royal Palace, not in some attic in Amaranthine."  
  
"Elle, my love." Alistair carefully sat the painting down onto the cushions of the settee and came over to her. Bending, he pressed his forehead to hers, and they both closed their eyes, completing the connection. "Thank you. This is more than I'd thought to know about my, um, grandmother, the Rebel Queen. I never really gave her, or the rest of my family in that direction, much thought outside of Maric. Perhaps I should look into it."  
  
"I hoped you might. It is good to know what you can, especially when there are a few among us that still remember her."  
  
"Eamon never met her, he was in the Free Marches during the war here. Queen Rowan fought with her father in the resistance, as the eldest. But I bet Arl Wulff's parents were in the resistance. I think his mother is still alive, somewhere around here. She was moved to their residence in Denerim when darkspawn were spotted in his arling, and hasn't gone back, not even during the rebuilding after the battle. Maybe she would talk to me..."  
  
Marinelle smiled, listening to Alistair go on. It cheered her to see him displaying something other than contempt for his royal heritage.  
  
Varric looked up at the crowd. "She'd given him a powerful gift with that picture, but the Paragon didn't know it at the time. All it takes is a spark to light a fire."


	4. An Old Threat

Their time together passed in a somewhat routine manner, Alistair busy with rebuilding and running Ferelden, and Marinelle with the Wardens. She relinquished her title of Commander of the Grey when she'd left Amaranthine, but to whom she did not know, and took on the role of Specialist. If they were so minded to classify it, it would have fallen under the category of infiltration and espionage, though most Wardens would scoff at the thought of such a rank within their order.  
  
Marinelle knew better, she knew that the Wardens sought answers where many wished them to stay buried, crossing that the line between magic and mysticism, where evil and righteous were so far blurred that they sometimes existed within the same plane. As much as she disliked leaving Alistair, she found herself traveling more and more, as the Wardens contacted her with increasing frequency. The trips weren't always an order, but a suggestion, and she undertook them wanting to keep herself busy and in the good graces of the First Warden, who still took issue with her.  
  
Her work took her far from the comforts of Denerim at times, and she found herself at odds with the Chantry more often than not. More than once she conscripted Blood Mages, using their powers to help find information and uncover hidden facts before sending them off to the Vigil to take the Joining, or in some cases, slaying those that fell prey to the demons they'd bargained with to gain their power. It was grim business, no doubt few would call her Order heroes if they knew of the methods they could use. Her trips away were oft long and drawn out with little results. It was very wearying work, and she was glad to have spared Alistair from it.  
  
Though he did not truly ever take to life at court, it suited him more than Warden life would have. Once, just once, in the early days after Amaranthine had she tried to convey the complexities of a mission, and Alistair had promptly turned it to black and white, as only he could.   
  
"It isn't that simple, Alistair." She'd said to him, speaking of the Architect.  
  
He stood across the room with his arms folded over his chest, managing to look smug yet exasperated with her. "Yes, it is. The Architect was a darkspawn, so you killed him. That's what we Wardens do, and yes, I still consider myself one. Some days I feel more Warden than King, truth be told. I think it was the right decision."  
  
"Yes, I suppose in the most basic sense, that is correct, but there was more to it. He kidnapped Wardens, experimented on them, and there was a dwarf with him and Siranni. I know Velanna never forgave me for it, but he wasn't there to help humanity, merely his own 'people'." Marinelle shuddered, recalling their conversation. "Not everyone survives becoming a Warden, yet that didn't seem to bother him."  
  
"See, evil!" Alistair said, as if making a profound point. "Elle, listen to me." He spoke in a quieter tone, but his voice had a vehemence to it. "I know it bothers you that you lost people on your command, but I'm telling you, there was only one thing you could have done. Second-guessing won't help you. It's done." He said with a finality that clearly ended the discussion, a newly acquired trait since assuming the throne.  
  
"You're right." Marinelle agreed. He was in some ways, correct, but as she was trying to say, it was delicate, more nuanced than he thought. Were it simply killing darkspawn, she wouldn't lose sleep over it, but she wondered about the Architect, what he had been doing and whether he'd spoken the truth. It seemed he had the ability to command without force, and Siranni wanted to be with him.   
  
It still haunted her, in truth, more than her fight with the archdemon. Alistair had moved on however, sure that he had sufficiently made his point.  
  
"Who do you think I should make teyrn of Gwaren now? Ever since Loghain," He didn't add the words 'that traitor' but Marinelle could feel them unspoken broiling beneath the surface, "I haven't been able to keep a teyrn down there. Locals say the seat is cursed, and maybe they are right. But it still needs a lord, cursed or not."  
  
"Give it to the templars," Marinelle joked, "as a retirement place."  
  
"A bunch of old, lyrium-addled templars running Gwaren? It can't be worse than it is already. If I weren't so disinclined to give the Chantry anything, I might consider it."  
  
The argument was well in the past, but Marinelle still reflected on it from time to time. Things had changed for the nation, the tide turning towards something good for the first time in a very long time. Alistair, the optimist that he was, tended to only want to see the good things after fighting for so long.  
  
After some very rough times, including shortages in the years after the Blight, the land began to heal and the nation grew somewhat prosperous once more. Alistair was buoyed by the progress, and reluctant to acknowledge anything that pointed towards dissatisfaction. He'd been putting down rebellions and quarrels for years since he'd taken the throne, but Ferelden, nearly five years since the Blight began, was starting to show signs of healing.  
  
They argued, Marinelle gently trying to point out his obliviousness to anything contrary to progress for Ferelden. While he was well aware of treachery and court politics, there was undeniable good happening, and he used it as a shield to block out all that was unpleasant.  
  
"Now before you judge the king too harshly," Varric began, "think of it from his standpoint. His kingdom was finally beginning to show signs of improvement after the Blight, years of work and effort making themselves known at last. Wouldn't we all want to bask in it, at least for a moment? But he had her worried, and the Wardens were calling her back, so Marinelle didn't have the time to help him sort it out."  
  
Privately, Varric thought that King Alistair was still too much of an optimist. He had a strange air about him, and was no slouch in a fight, but altogether too curious and forgiving for a King. Perhaps that's what made him a good one, and so far as Varric could tell, a good man.  
  
#####  
  
Word came by letter, summoning the Warden-Specialist to the Free Marches with all haste. Except for the odd job or her regular reports from Weisshaupt, Marinelle hadn't been ordered anywhere in the years since Amaranthine. It was clear that this task wasn't optional, and she wondered why they picked her to do it, usually her job was one of her own creation and exploration. They expected her to work, and she did, but liberally used the resources at her disposal in Ferelden and hadn't strayed too far from the country in the past few years.   
  
She'd traveled a few times to Orzammar, mostly for personal reasons, and once to Orlais for the Wardens. This was her first trip to the Free Marches, but her directives from Weisshaupt gave her good reason to worry. There was much going on there, and a band of explorers had gotten deeper into the Roads there than anyone had ever expected.   
  
Few people realized just how treacherous the Deeps were, with their old construction, traps and darkspawn. She shook her head at the sheer recklessness in search of gold, but understood the desperation. The report had come to her spoke of a Fereldan refugee involved, but she didn't remember the details. Poor sod, well, not so poor anymore, but Marinelle sympathized, knowing how many dusters took the same chance, going into the Deeps to take anything that might be profitable.  
  
Her ship left Denerim, just as Alistair was to begin negotiating a series of trade contracts. Most of the court was arriving within the week, and representatives from Orzammar. It was almost like calling the Landsmeet, but with more people. The dwarves were some of Ferelden's most powerful allies, trading their lyrium for supplies and aid from the surface. A few mages had also been permitted to visit, to help research ways to boost dwarves fertility. Recently incentives had been offered to families wanting to have more children, and included surface dwarves, so long as they came back to Orzammar. Times were changing.  
  
"Heya Warden, long time no see." Oghren's voice floated up to her, and Marinelle couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face. She turned, and saw her old friend, armed with a menacing looking battle-axe, walking towards her. Well, almost walking, doing the best he could on a ship, which more like taking tiny, halting steps in her direction. When he got close enough to her, she took a step back. Some things never changed, and Oghren was the same as ever, still smelling like the strong drink he preferred.  
  
Nathaniel Howe was their other companion and he met them once they arrived in the Free Marches. He'd been sent ahead to scout the area, specifically the entrances to the Deep Roads. From what she gathered, they weren't the first to go to Kirkwall, just the most recent. There were teams already ahead of them, and she'd been reading the scant reports from a man named Stroud before she set sail.  
  
"Warden-Commander." Nathaniel greeted her. She held up a hand, smiling at him.   
  
Prior to this assignment, the last she'd heard, he was still at Vigil's Keep, training Wardens and keeping watch on the tunnels underneath. It was a good place for him, not just because it had been his home, but because he knew the area so well and kept it safe. Ferelden had a respectable compliment of Wardens now, due in no small part to his efforts. While she had worked at keeping herself covert and buried in research, Nathaniel had become visible, the son of a traitor who made his name notable once again, and bore it with more humility than expected.  
  
"Not Commander anymore." She reminded him.  
  
"Of course, I forget myself, milady. Will the Hero of Ferelden suffice?" He asked, chuckling.  
  
"For now." Marinelle answered, laughing. "So, tell me what you know so far."  
  
"Down to business already? Once a commander, always a commander, right?" He said.  
  
Marinelle shook her head at him. "Not really, but I am in charge." She said with a smile. Switching back to business, she said, "There's a lot of activity in these parts and most of it isn't good."  
  
Once they'd gone to a place where less people could overhear, Marinelle outlined their mission. There was nothing simple about the endeavor, there were too many unanswered questions. What was paramount was to not let the people of the Free Marches, especially those involved with Bartrand Tethras's expedition know that they were following their route. They had disturbed what Stroud and the other Wardens had been working on for months.   
  
Then there was the problem of Anders. The Wardens knew that he was somewhere in Kirkwall, hiding, but hadn't yet found him. Marinelle suspected if he wanted to be found, he would. She didn't care if he'd left the Wardens - it wasn't a life or death thing for her, though some of the others felt it should be. She shuddered, that type of reasoning was too close to the Antivan Crows for her. No, she was more concerned about him, and how the spirit of Justice had ceased to use Kristoff's body after their last battle. Aura, of course, had been glad for it, but Marinelle didn't think that Justice was simply gone, and if anyone knew where the spirit was, it would have been the mage.   
  
But her thoughts and information about their missing Grey Warden didn't play into their conversation. It wasn't for her to tell Nathaniel and Oghren to keep an eye out for him. Instead she looked them over and sighed before she began to talk.  
  
"There's a lot to do and little to go on for this one." She began. Oghren snorted.   
  
"Warden, how's that different from every other time?"  
  
Marinelle laughed softly, conceding the point. "Still, we're on our own out here. There's a lot of ground to cover, above and below it. We're going to go up the mountains surrounding Kirkwall, and to the Deeps below it, possibly running into the other teams that have been deployed. If so, keep to our schedule. We have our objectives, and they have theirs."  
  
"What are we looking for, exactly?" Nathaniel asked.  
  
"Clues, evidence, anything out of the ordinary or of note. The darkspawn are stronger here than we've ever seen, even in Amaranthine. Kirkwall in particular has a long history of blood magic, and that can change a place. Expect horrors and lots more magic here, and runaway blood mages. Try not to get in their way, we're not here to condemn anyone, just looking for something to help explain the shift we've been seeing."  
  
"These spawn aren't talking are they?" Oghren asked.  
  
"Maker, I hope not." She said, but then clarified. "I haven't had any reports of it so far." Neither Nathaniel or Oghren looked reassured.  
  
She shook her head, thinking about the descriptions the Wardens had sent her. Word from travelers and the odd Tal-Vashoth trying to make a coin told tales of darkspawn stronger, faster, more cunning than anything that had surfaced in Ferelden, save for the Architect and the Mother.  
  
There were others working as she did, most notably a Senior Warden named Janeka that had recently gone missing in the Deep Roads near Kirkwall. Her research team had been trying to find answers in an old dwarven construct that the Wardens had used sometime before. Marinelle had asked for details about the mission and Janeka, but was curtly denied. That rankled, but she knew the Wardens were suspicious of her, and not inclined to let the 'Hero of Ferelden' into their upper echelons.  
  
Into the Deeps was their first place to start, and already Marinelle noticed a vast difference between the Deep Roads in the Free Marches and those in Ferelden. She was used to places that reminded her vaguely of Orzammar, but she realized how far she was from home looking at these other thaigs. Everything about them, from the designs and symbols down to the very stone was different, and somehow, even older than what she'd seen before. A lifetime wouldn't be enough to catalogue all that they saw.  
  
The darkspawn in these Deep Roads were different too. Closer to what she'd seen in Amaranthine, these bore little resemblance to the first of the spawn she'd faced in the Kocari Wilds. Those had seemed practically benign in comparison.  
  
What little light there was glowed red here, not the amber of the light and lava she remembered from home. The crimson cast made everything seem even more malevolent and alien to her. There was less lyrium here too, unlike the caverns she'd followed to find Branka, where the walls ran thick with the blue veins of ore, these were all carved and sculpted, already mined. They very walls felt older, but more oppressive as if eyes watched and waited to kill them. It was too much for her and she'd fought the angry spirits in the Dead Trenches.  
  
"Warden, what the hell is going on?" Oghren grumbled at her one night. "This is like nothing I've ever seen before."  
  
"Me either, Oghren, and I have no idea what to make of it. We're both from Orzammar, but by the Stone, I don't recognize any more than half of the stuff we've seen down here. This worries me."  
  
"I don't even care about taking home any of this treasure, I just want to know what's going on."  
  
"Would you believe me if I told you we aren't even as deep as these go? A Fereldan refugee went down here with an expedition, even deeper than we're going, and came out rich. Found an old thaig filled with ancient treasure."  
  
To her surprise, Oghren shuddered. "Damn fool thing to do. I used to fight darkspawn, and I don't want to go deeper. There's something wrong here, Marinelle, and I don't like it."  
  
He was serious, she realized, because she'd never heard him use her name before. This worried him, possibly even scared Oghren, a veteran of the Blight and warrior from Orzammar who'd spent most of his life fighting darkspawn before Branka became a Paragon. She didn't know what to make of it. There was something older and more malevolent here than anything she'd encountered in Ferelden, but it was just a feeling. Maddening for it to just be a feeling, something within her that felt wrong, but with no evidence.  
  
It made her miss Alistair more than ever. He would understand, possibly even share her trepidation. She wondered what he would make of the whole situation. Even if he didn't come down to the Deep Roads with her, he would tell her to trust her gut.  
  
"Nathaniel." She went over to where the archer was perched as a lookout, and sat next to him.  
  
"Marinelle." He smiled as he said her name, but still managed to sound grim.   
  
"We're going to head back tomorrow. We've found nothing, no evidence and there's no reason to stay down here. If we did, we'd probably just wind up with more questions. I want to make my report in Kirkwall and check out the city before we head up to those mountains we were told to investigate. Some of them might even have passages that lead down here, and we're to map them if we can. You feeling up to that?"  
  
"Sure." He said, but didn't offer her more. As she was getting up to leave, he spoke again in his gravelly voice. "I feel it too."  
  
It was all he said, all anyone needed to say. There was something wrong under Kirkwall, but damn if they were going to find out what it was on this trip. It was enough to have seen the difference in the darkspawn and the roads here, and make her reports to the Wardens. If they wanted more details, they could send more Wardens next time.  
  
The city itself depressed and overpopulated, still bursting at the seems with refugees. Kirkwall was full of artifacts and a thriving black market, all manner of goods, magical, banned, historic and of dubious authenticity were to be found there. Marinelle did her best to get information and keep her friends comfortable on their one day of rest after the Deep Roads, but there was little comfort to be had in Kirkwall. There was an ill-feeling about the place, a sense of unfulfilled darkness that seemed to thrive instead of being dispelled by the passage of time. She thought that they would shake that feeling once they were aboveground, but Kirkwall seemed to reinforce the dark foreboding that had made all of them so uneasy underground.  
  
Still once she'd given them funds and they sold the few relics they'd taken from the Deep Roads, her team was in better spirits. Nathaniel walked with her around the market while Oghren broke away with a strained excuse, then fled in the direction of the brothel, called the Blooming Rose.  
  
"What do you know about the Fereldan refugee that went into the Deep Roads?" Nathaniel asked a shopkeeper, who regaled them with the tale of Bartrand Tethras's expedition, though Bartrand wasn't in Kirkwall anymore.   
  
"He had a brother, a devilishly handsome fellow named Varric, who was so busy holding the family businesses together that they wouldn't think to bother him with their inane inquiries. Instead they sought out the slightly mad and definite bastard of Bartrand for information, on the off chance he wouldn't sell them out too." Varric said.  
  
At the bar, Isabela made a face at him, something between smothering her laughter and warning him not to go too far. Hell, this was Varric's story, and if he had to include Bartrand, he wasn't going to make the part where his brother left him in the Deep Roads seem reasonable. He heeded her warning though, and took a deep breath before he pushed on.  
  
On Sundermount and the Wounded Coast, the Wardens had more success. Marinelle was familiar with the latter by reputation, and the former through research. There were a clan of Dalish Elves, curiously without halla living on the side of the mountain, and she took great care to avoid their hunters. There was no need to raise the ire of the Dalish Keeper without cause.  
  
"She was right to avoid those Dalish." Varric said. "I've met them more than a few times, and never have I felt more eyes and arrows trained on my every move. But this is about our fair Warden, not me." He chuckled. "Still she went up that wretched mountain and into its accursed caves. When I say she had to fight monsters of all sorts, this is no exaggeration. Dragons and shades, Arcane Horrors and skeletons of all kinds come out once disturbed. But it isn't what she fought there that matters, it's what she found."  
  
Nathaniel was busy with his map making, leaving Marinelle the scout of the group. They found caves and passages that looked like the underground thaigs they'd come out of and he was carefully constructing a trail of their explorations. Nothing made sense, but Marinelle was sure these mountains somehow connected to the Deep Roads. They glowed with the same crimson cast, and shared the spooky feeling. Every time she looked for the connection, she got turned around, even once coming across a mad golem, but never finding anything that made even the remotest sense. Oghren grew more and more uncomfortable by the day, and his agitation rubbed off on her.   
  
Finally, after fighting through a room full of horrors, spiders and demons, they hit upon something. It was the first concrete thing she'd found that made any sense, tucked away in a chest with hinges so rusty they fell apart when she struck them. After tossing a pouch of small jewels and a few arrows to Nathaniel, she pulled out a hollow tube, the kind made for carrying parchment and messages.  
  
Inside was a rolled scroll, not sealed or signed, but simply left, as if the writer wanted it read but not found. The scroll was a curious thing, and even more curious to find it on Sundermount instead of in the depths of the Deep Roads. It spoke of the Witch of the Wilds, but didn't refer to her as Asha'bellanar as the elvhen did. Marinelle unrolled it carefully, minding the soft, slightly damp parchment. She worried that the ink might be smudged, but it was as stark as the day it was put to page, a dark red color that looked suspiciously like blood, but written in a sure hand.  
  
'She tricks us, so skilled at manipulating all of us. There is nothing in my experience that is like the witch, and so there is nothing to warn us. Let it be known, even as I die that this will endure, to serve as a small help to others. There is nothing that will stop her from seeking the power she needs, and it can only come from Calenhad. Beware, those of the blood. She will find you and bind you in any way she can. The right hand offers help, while the sinister works towards her own desires. Do not be fooled.'  
  
Shock made her movements a little stiffer, but otherwise she didn't react to what she'd read. Her face set in a unreadable mask, she slid the paper back into the tubing and closed it without comment. Marinelle didn't give it to anyone around her, or mention the message to either of them, lest they take it back to the Wardens. That was the last thing she wanted. It had to go to Alistair. He was the only person she knew that had the blood of Calenhad running through his veins, and he'd made a deal - they'd made a deal with Flemeth and Morrigan that resulted in a child.  
  
What was in store for that child, she did not like to think.  
  
Varric swallowed a gulp of ale, smiling at the barmaid that brought it to him. "You see, there are those that say the witch isn't real, but believe me, she is. There is nothing more terrifying than seeing her conjure herself from a trinket and turn into a dragon out of nowhere. And I know terrifying, I lived through the Battle of Kirkwall."


	5. Fire Ignited

With Marinelle away in the Free Marches, Alistair had time to devote to his own research without fear of interruption or distraction. During the past years, his interest in his father's line had grown exponentially, taking him by surprise. There was much to be learned about his blood, and why it was so important to so many people. Calenhad the Silver Knight had been an interesting man indeed, and Alistair admired his ancestor the more he learned about him. Uniting Ferelden had been a dangerous task, and many people had thought it sheer folly. But in the end, it had proven to be the right decision, strengthening its people against invasion and halting much of the warring between teynirs.   
  
In fact, he'd begun to admire many more of the people in his line, more than he'd ever expected. His lineage was vast and diverse, but sadly, some of the records were lost. That might have been for the best, considering what they'd seen at Vigil's Keep about King Arland. Unfortunately, his father didn't yet merit the same regard, though Alistair had grown more curious about the mysterious last days of King Maric. There were things that weren't adding up, not with Maric, and not within the history he'd always been told and believed to some extent.   
  
Alistair didn't share these thoughts with Marinelle, or anyone, especially not at first. No one could possibly understand, save for perhaps Cailan, the king who was regrettably gone. Without his brother around to discuss things with, Alistair went deeper into himself, taking no one fully into his confidence. Ideas formed in his head, and he made cryptic notes on scraps of paper he either locked away or burned. He didn't want anyone to even suspect what was going on in his mind or about the doubts he harbored. With every passing year, the story of Maric dying at sea grew more and more outlandish to his ears, but for the life of him, Alistair couldn't pinpoint why. Why would Maric have abandoned his country and stayed gone, even after it was plunged into chaos and civil war?  
  
He'd questioned himself time and again, wondering what could be so dire as to make him leave Ferelden and his people for good. Maybe the Wardens, but these days, he wasn't as likely to leave for them as he had been in the past. The Grey Wardens had their own agenda and were none too keen on sharing it with him. To them, he was simply a Grey Warden by account of surviving the Joining, and he was only tangentially considered amongst their numbers.  
  
Although he didn't show it, he resented the way Elle hid things from him. King or not, he believed himself just as much Warden as she was, but yet she didn't tell him anything anymore. At first, she'd claimed that she hadn't wanted to burden him, Ferlelden was enough to worry about. Later she would simply sigh when he asked, sometimes gently telling him that she couldn't talk about it. He wasn't stupid - he got reports about her, and he knew much more about her doings than she had ever offered to tell him. There were blood mages and murderers she worked with, betimes even conscripting them into the Wardens, causing the obligatory Chantry complaint from time to time, but she never told him any of it. That she didn't share, and it seemed like she didn't trust him anymore, that wounded him more than any blow he'd ever taken. So he reasoned away his own secrecy with hurt feelings, promising himself that he would tell her eventually.  
  
"Your Majesty, Teyrn Cousland awaits you." The servant bowed to Alistair and the King rose without truly seeing the face of the man, all of his thoughts occupied with Fergus Cousland.   
  
Summoning him to the palace had been his own idea, one of the few people he could ask questions of without rousing too much suspicion. Fergus had never been given to gossip at all, and mostly stayed away from court, trying to restore Highever to its former glory before the goings on of the war tarnished it.  
  
There were things he needed to ask, history that he wasn't sure Fergus knew, but since there were no other Couslands anymore, he had no choice but to start with the teyrn. Alistair felt damn bad about poking around the family history of the Couslands, but since their family historian had also been slain, he didn't know where else to turn.   
  
Years later, and they were still trying to get rid of the ghosts in Highever. Bryce Cousland, Fergus's father, had been beloved when he was alive, and was nearly a saint now to the people of Highever. Fergus was just as popular, but where his father was regarded with good-natured joviality and fond recollections, the son got pity and the whispers and speculation it brought.   
  
Fergus had been the eldest of two Cousland sons, with a wife and child of his own. All of his family was gone due to the Blight and the horrid civil war it caused. Rendon Howe, former Arl of Amaranthine had his men when they attack Castle Cousland. He was the last of his line, and Alistair felt an odd solidarity with him. Fergus had recently remarried, his new wife was a beautiful Rivaini woman with ebony hair down to her waist who had caused a stir when she came to court for the first time. People in Highever would be beyond elated for their lord if there were more Couslands on the way, but Alistair had heard nothing of it, not even a rumor.  
  
People like Eamon had some recollection of the Cousland history, but again, most of it was too recent to be of help. They fought with the resistance in the war, even turning against Tarleton Howe, Rendon's father, who had sided with the Orlesians. Alistair sought knowledge older, but asking Fergus was taking a gamble. He may never have been taught it, and if he had been there was little chance he would remember enough to be of help. But still, Alistair felt as if he had to try.  
  
"Teyrn Cousland." Alistair said, extending his hand as he entered the study where Fergus Cousland stood waiting for him.  
  
The man gripped his hand in greeting, and Alistair noticed the silver at his temples, another thing they had in common. The aftermath of the war had a way of aging them all. "Your Majesty." He replied. "It is good to see you again."  
  
"And you. I'll get straight to the point." Alistair said, and noticed a slight stiffening in Cousland's spine as he waited. "I'd like to know about your family."   
  
"My family, Your Highness?" Fergus asked, obviously confused.  
  
"Yes. You see, more specifically I'd like to know about the ancestor that took over the land once Lord Conobar died, and if they recorded anything about his death or life."  
  
Fergus furrowed his brow, trying to dredge up memories of stories he'd heard so often in his youth. He began to speak haltingly, trying to conjure long buried memories of lesson from his mind, all the while wondering why the King would care about Flemeth. Other than saving Alistair and the Warden, which was a tale that still was a little foggy to Fergus, he couldn't say much about her. It was likely Alistair knew far more about her than Fergus had ever been taught. "Well, you know about him and Flemeth. I suppose that's why you're asking, to learn more about the Witch."  
  
"Not just her, but I think it's important."  
  
"Right then, I'll tell you what I can remember. There might be a scholar or two here in Denerim that could tell you some, or you could try the Circle of Magi. They always have historians there. Or Nathaniel Howe, he might know, since Conobar was supposedly related to his family."  
  
Alistair nodded but had no intention of asking Nathaniel Howe of all people, anything. Warden or not, he still wasn't inclined to trust the Howes. He waited for Fergus to go on.   
  
"Surely you know the tales of Flemeth, wed to Conobar and infatuated with the bard Osen?"  
  
"I've heard it several ways." Alistair replied dryly, thinking of the way Morrigan had told the story.  
  
Fergus nodded in acknowledgment and went on. "My ancestor, Sarim Cousland was the captain of Conobar's guard and took over. There wasn't much recorded then, and much of my family's library and records were burned. Just speculation and tales of Flemeth's betrayal and rage."  
  
"Conobar had her imprisoned in the highest tower in our castle, which has always been crumbling beyond repair in my lifetime, so I've never been up there. We always thought it was haunted, to tell you the truth. Tried to dare each other to go up there, but we never did" Fergus admitted with a half-laugh. "It was supposedly there that she summoned spirits to help her, abominations and all of that. Or became one, I'm not quite sure."  
  
"Anyway, that's about all I can remember. Haunted tower and the vengeance of Flemeth and all that. I'm sorry, King Alistair, I'm sure this isn't of any help."  
  
Disappointed, Alistair nodded. He had hoped that Fergus might say something, remember anything that could have been useful or even interesting in some way, but it seems like he didn't know anything.  
  
The teyrn was lost in his own thoughts, and spoke in a low voice, more to himself than Alistair. "Aedan would have remembered, he loved those tales..." But offered nothing else to the king.  
  
They made pleasant enough talk until Alistair dismissed Fergus, who apologized again for not knowing more. He was a good man, loathe to disappoint his king, though Alistair assured him that it was at least helpful to hear the same story from Fergus, at least there weren't that many versions of the myth.  
  
After Fergus left, Alistair sat in front of his fire, thinking on the information he'd amassed for himself as he sipped brandy from a crystal tumbler. His mind was working, Fergus's words echoing in his head. There was still much missing, things he had yet to learn, but he felt as if he'd heard something important from Fergus. He just couldn't figure out what it was yet.  
  
#####  
  
Marinelle returned to the palace in a state of high agitation from her that damn scroll, most unlike her usual return to Denerim. Oghren and Nathaniel had gone in different directions after returning to Kirkwall, Oghren back to Amaranthine where he stayed most of the time, and Nathaniel off to Ostwick. It was evening when she arrived, and Alistair was thankfully free to see her immediately, letting her rush into his private study still wearing her Warden Blues. She gave Alistair the scroll without waiting, explaining her travels. The Free Marches had been unsettling for her, even moreso than the Deep Roads. He set it on his desk, and it unfolded naturally, as if it wanted him to read it.  
  
"Where did you find this?" Alistair asked in a whisper. He hadn't wanted to say it like that, but it came out hushed and oddly stilted. Cold fear sluiced through his veins, leaving him shaken as he reread the scroll. It was written in blood, he was almost sure of it. His skin prickled when he looked at it, yet he couldn't take his eyes off of it.  
  
"There was a cave in the mountains outside of Kirkwall." She said, trying to explain the ancient, haunted rises and valleys of Sundermount to him. It was all caves and ragged caverns, filled with beasts, dragons and corrupted demons. "Alistair, it was old, and deep, it connected to the Deep Roads. All of the places there seemed connected, and held this horrible feeling, like darkness binding them. We tried to make a map, but we never could, we kept turning around and getting lost." Marinelle said, shivering. "I know I probably should have brought it to the Wardens, but it seemed to concern you more than them."  
  
He nodded, still not looking at her. "Indeed it does. Thank you for bringing it to me." His shoulders hunched, he stood over the thing, staring it but not touching. He seemed entranced, eyes fixed to it, mouth moving silently as he read it again to himself. She didn't hear him come to bed that night, which was most unusual, not just because he usually welcomed her home with a tumble, but Alistair tried to sleep as much as he could. Aside from her and cheese, he called sleep one of his true loves.  
  
The next morning, he had bags under his eyes, but was full of furious questions for Elle. He'd been so consumed by the scroll's contents and his own research, it didn't register that she had been forthcoming with him finally, telling him the details that he'd desired. It hardly mattered in the wake of the cryptic scroll. He'd copied it out by hand and had the original locked away for safekeeping, though not after studying it, making notes on the appearance and details of it.  
  
Alistair didn't even wait for her to eat before he started questioning her. He did, however, try not to sound as if he were accusing her of anything. "You and Morrigan were quite friendly before, as I recall."  
  
Marinelle wasn't fooled by his casual tone. "Is there something you want to ask about her? I will tell you anything you want to know, my love." Even to her own ears, the end sounded strained. Alistair didn't even favor her with a smile when she said it.  
  
"What did you two ever discuss? I wondered that often when I saw you near her fire, but figured it wasn't my place to know. Now, I think it is."  
  
Marinelle sat down to partake of the breakfast that had been laid out for Alistair, absently buttering bread as she thought. "It was a long time ago, Alistair. Honestly, I remember our conversations more than anything I said to Morrigan. She never betrayed anything to me, I never knew her true motives, but I doubt she understood Flemeth's either. At least she didn't seem to trust her, not before we found that grimoire and certainly not afterwards."  
  
"I know you're telling me the truth as you remember it, yet I can't help but feel like we too are pawns in this. Flemeth, possibly Morrigan, plays a bigger game." Alistair muttered. This scroll, in combination with his own research was disturbing, to put it mildly.  
  
There was little more to be said on the subject, but over the next few weeks, Marinelle saw Alistair disappearing into his study for hours on end, asking not to be interrupted. She knew he was looking at the scroll, and worried that he might be growing obsessed with it. For so long, she'd tried to give him parts of his past back, to help him accept it, but she couldn't give him answers, which was the one thing he desperately wanted.  
  
A wedge settled between the two of them, pushed there by Alistair himself, who grew darker and withdrawn as time went on. They shared the same bed, but for the first time not the easy confidence that had always been between them. There were days that went by without the two of them speaking, without truly talking like they used to do all the time, and it worried Marinelle.   
  
Privately, he even called her by her title a few times, addressing her as chancellor or Lady Brosca as he did when they were in public. She suspected the lapses were not intentional, but rather were borne of his distraction with the scroll. It served to emphasize the gap that had come between them, and quelled any desire to force through his barriers. Though not intentional, it stung too much, and her pride was too great. In the past, they used to laugh at such lofty formality, but it had become almost second nature to him. Alistair was settling into the role of King, and leaving her out.  
  
So it surprised her when he asked her to accompany him in a parade through Denerim, something he'd planned to boost the flagging morale of the people and the purses of shopkeepers along the route. Though the worst was behind them, the economy still was sluggish, and trade not nearly as profitable for the country. The people, so long suffering, had been getting dispirited and sometimes violent. A parade was one of the many small things Alistair hoped would help redirect the restless energy of the people and imbue the public consciousness with a sense of hope.   
  
As an adviser to the crown, she was always allowed to be close to him, but careful not to be affectionate or display overt signs that she was his lover in public. With the distance between them, her role in both capacities had lessened, and she wondered exactly why he wanted her to attend. Nevertheless, she couldn't turn down a request from the King of Ferelden, and Marinelle consented to go. On the morning of, she donned her dragonskin Warden armor and weapons, and fell into the line, next to Alistair. He didn't even say good morning to her.


	6. Warning Signs

The arrow was poisoned. Marinelle knew it, could hear the malicious whirring in the air as it sped towards its destination - Alistair. The guards around her knew it too, at least some of them did, and were jolted into action. Too late, she knew, it was just a second too late. Around her she could hear the a lone voice screaming, loud and shrill above the din of the normal pitch of voices, the marching of boots against the dusty road, the sound of the king's trumpet corps heralding their march, far ahead of them.  
  
"Kill Calenhad's heir. No more shall we suffer because of the legacy of the Silver Knight! Death to you!" The voice screeched, sounding absolutely mad. If this was a professional assassin, then his deception was perfect. He sounded crazed, raving as he loosed the arrow.  
  
Her reaction time had always been quick, honed to perfection in Dust Town, and she shot into action. Marinelle couldn't stem the fear she felt when she thought of anything happening to Alistair, and pushed him, as far away as she could. Their recent distance had nothing to do with how she felt in her heart about Alistair. If the need ever arose, she'd promised herself that she would die for him, back during the Blight, and in the present. Alistair grunted as he hit the ground hard, he was heavy, but she'd used all of her force as she ran into him. She'd already knocked him down when the people the first notes of panic became evident in the cacophony of the crowd around them. Looking around, she scanned the area for more threats as if she were a guard and not a consort. Whatever her title was, they'd come too far together for him to die because of one cowardly assassin.  
  
When the arrow sank into her flesh, she could feel the poison on the tip of it seeping into her. She wasn't wearing a helm, but instinctively raised her arm to shield her face. It hit her squarely in the muscled flesh of her bicep, tearing through her light armor like a pinning shot. Luckily, her dragonskin armor had prevented it from piercing her too deeply, but the poison, ah, was it ever potent. It felt like an ice tipped dagger plunging into her flesh, and the coolness spread out from her wound at a rapid pace. Heartstopper poison - designed to slow everything in the body down, made for capturing, for torture, not killing. She'd made this a few times herself, but had never been on the receiving end until that moment. It was only a few more moments until she lost consciousness.  
  
"Alistair." She moaned, looking around with a heavy head. Pandemonium had erupted around them once she'd pushed Alistair to the ground, altering them that something was wrong. The rapid thump of feet running in every direction made her head throb, the air filled with shrill screams and the guards barking orders with swords drawn. They were completely surrounded, a shield above her blocking the light and preventing any more arrows from finding her. Another would surely kill her, slowing her heart beyond all resuscitation. "Alistair." She repeated weakly.  
  
"I'm here." His voice answered from somewhere to her left, and Marinelle sank to the ground, legs too wobbly to keep standing. "Oh, Maker, why?" He rasped, his pale, anxious face swimming before hers. "Why did you push me out of the way? I have on plate under these ceremonial robes."  
  
"You're king." She answered thickly. "Love you. Protect."  
  
"I can't be king without you. You know that." He said quickly, though over the past weeks he'd acted as if he could. "Healer!" He called out, but the word was warped as if he were talking to her from far away.   
  
What time was it? It was growing dark around the edges of her vision, and the sky seemed to be filled with clouds. Hadn't it just been a sunny day? She remembered the sun, the guards looking up into it, unable to see the one arrow as the bright light blinded them. Arrow. Yes, she remembered, and looked over to see where she'd dropped on the dusty ground after pulling it from her arm.  
  
Blackness shrouded her eyes then, and she could still hear the commotion around her, a stilted play where all the lines were delivered in shrill screams and hoarse whispers, and then all went quiet.  
  
  
"She doesn't die here." Varric said in a quiet voice, interrupting his own story.  
  
"What?" The dwarven woman in front of him started.  
  
"You looked worried, so I wanted to assure that she didn't die. That's all."  
  
She grinned sheepishly at him. "I know that." She said, managing to sound haughty through her embarrassment. "It was just a good point in the story, had me holding my breath. Are you going to continue?"  
  
"By all means." Varric said, and went on. "It wasn't a fatal shot, but only barely. Much of her recovery was due to hearty dwarven and Warden constitution, but it kept the Paragon off her feet for many days."  
  
#####  
  
She was in bed when she finally came to, in Alistair's bed and not a sickbed, but she didn't see a sign of him. At her side, a woman in mage robes was sleeping in a chair, and Marinelle guessed that this was the healer that had tended to her. It was night, and she couldn't tell how much time had passed since the parade.  
  
"Ah, you are awake, it is good to see you back amongst the living, old friend." Leliana's voice came from a corner of the room, and Marinelle looked up to see her coming towards the bed. "King Alistair will be pleased, he's been most distressed since you've been ill." The scene reminded her too much of waking up in Flemeth's hut after the Battle of Ostagar and Marinelle shivered reflexively, trying not to recall the old horror of that first fight as a Warden.  
  
Leliama - how long had she been here? Dressed in leather armor with a cap on her distinctive hair, she was armed, a beautiful shortbow on her back, dagger at her waist. Alistair must have put her in the room to watch over Marnelle, mistrustful of others. But when had she arrived? Marinelle had too many questions and tried to push herself upwards, only to be held back by the mage. The woman had woken up when Leliana spoke, and was fishing out a lyrium potion to take before she began to work on Marinelle again.  
  
"Did they catch...?" Her voice was creaky with disuse, and she licked her cracked lips, tasting blood. She tried to form words in her dry mouth, but they didn't quite come out.  
  
"Some of them, yes. They were questioned, and their heads now adorn pikes outside the palace. He is different, is he not? Before, Alistair would never have done such a thing. I think ruling has changed him, the hard decisions have taken their toll. Still, it was a wise choice, to send a warning."  
  
The mage was silently checking Marinelle over, ordering her to drink a vile smelling restorative potion before she would leave the room. Holding her nose, she did as she was ordered under the watchful eye of the mage, who reminded her of a more severe version of Wynne, though this woman had red, not white hair.  
  
"I will send for Alistair after we have a chance to talk. He will be most pleased to hear you are awake. But first, how are you feeling?"  
  
Marinelle had regained some of herself after drinking the potion. Whatever it was burned like the fires of Orzammar, but it had cleared her head some. "I'm not dead."  
  
"No, not yet." Leliana chuckled. "After all these years and adventures, it continues to surprise me that we both yet live. It seems the Maker must have more for us to do."  
  
"To what do I owe this visit?"   
  
Leliana's blue eyes sparkled. "I was waiting for the two of you to return to the palace. I am on official business from the Divine herself, and some unofficial business to speak to my friends."  
  
"What business would that be?" Marinelle asked cautiously. The Divine Justinia and Leliana had a past together, and the two seemed to be in a relationship of mutual advantage. Whether or not that was to the advantage of Ferelden or the Wardens, Marinelle hadn't yet determined. She suspected that Leliana was benevolent in her intentions, but not all actions carried out through covert means would have that outcome.  
  
"The Divine is very concerned about the troubles of the templars and the mages, but also for the Wardens. They have a unique place in the world, and with all the conflicts going on, maybe one that is unduly overshadowed in our times."  
  
"Do the Wardens need to know something?"  
  
Leliana gave her a sly smile. "The Divine has nothing to report, but offers her support in the continuing fight against evil. However, that may be of little comfort since the nobility of Orlais is in such upheaval. It may be difficult for people, even Wardens to get in and out of the capital at times, and all should travel the roads only if necessary, especially when they travel with a mage." Leliana delivered the line blandly, as if she were just offering advice to a friend, but Marinelle knew her too well to believe that. So, it seems even the Divine knew she'd been conscripting help wherever she could find it. If she knew what the tasks she'd had to undertake, maybe they wouldn't be so adverse to Marinelle taking help when she could. She turned her attention back to Leliana, who was still talking.   
  
"The nobles are bickering amongst themselves, and there is the quiet murmurings between them. I am an outsider, yes, so I can move a little more freely, can visit my friends in Denerim for now. It may not be so later, once I return to Orlais."  
  
"Are you leaving so soon?"  
  
"Not as yet, I still have to talk to Alistair. He was too distracted while you were ill." Marinelle caught the unsaid, whatever information needed to be delivered to Ferelden, it was only for Alistair to hear. Leliana sat down on the bed next to her, and began speaking in a soft voice.  
  
"You could come with me, you know. I have an invitation to a party that promises to be most exciting, and begins with a wyvern hunt. After that I plan to journey to Orlais. It would be nice to have you by my side." Leliana said.  
  
"A wyvern hunt? What's a wyvern?"  
  
"They are related to dragons, and hard to hunt, so I am told. But I am more interested in the host, Duke Prosper de Montfort. He's up to something, and it involves the Qunari. The Empress is involved somehow as well, though we know nothing definite. He is very interesting, his family is very close to Celene and Emperor Florian before her."  
  
Marinelle shook her head. "Wyverns, Qunari and scheming dukes. I'm sorry to say no, but I think this is more excitement than I should have right now."  
  
"Somehow I knew you wouldn't be interested in leaving quite yet. I suppose it is not time for us to travel together again, agreeable as the plan sounds. But I should leave you to rest. I will tell Alistair you are awake - he will be pleased."  
  
Leaning down to give Marinelle a kiss that brushed soft lips against her cheek, Leliana left the room. Her cryptic words made Marinelle's head spin. She had no mind for this at the moment, but scooted to the side table to fish out parchment and an inkwell so she could record a few key words before they were lost in her tired mind. It would probably take years before they would make any sense at all.  
  
Alistair had already heard from the healer than she was awake, but waited for Leliana to finish speaking to her. When the bard left he came to her more quickly than she'd expected, Marinelle had just been settling in with a book when Alistair came thundering into the room. He was wearing his armor, something she hadn't seen him doing too often recently, especially if he was just going about business in the palace. In the gleaming heavy plate, he was just as formidable as he'd been at the end of the Landsmeet, shining from head to toe, looking like Maric for all of Ferelden to see. He was much the same now, except his normally calm eyes were wild, frantic as the looked her over.  
  
"Thank the Maker. I thought I was going to lose you." He said, crossing over to the bedside in two large steps.  
  
"Not this time." She replied, smiling at him. For a moment, the gulf between them was gone, and she felt closer to him than she had in years. Alistair must have felt the same, for he removed his gauntlets and set them on her side table, next to the empty flask from her potion. Taking Marinelle's face in his big hands, he kissed her, again and again, his lips pressing against hers, demanding that she be there with him.  
  
His kisses were rougher than he would have liked, but her brush with death shook him to the core. It came out in his every touch, hands too groping, desperate kisses that left her breathless, sadness ensconced in his need. He was unintentionally forceful, and every so often he'd back away with realization, asking if she was alright, only to repeat his mistakes moments later. There was nothing more frightening to him than the thought of being alone.  
  
Carefully, he made love to her that night, aware of all that lay unsaid between them, and having no words to bridge the gap. They tried, but for the first time, it wasn't enough. Hands that started with a light touch, skimming over her skin, ending in a fierce grip as he held onto her. Her own kisses were no less needy, but she lacked the force, her body still too weak. Still, she took what he gave, needing it, and wanting everything he would give her. It was a sweet, heartbreaking echo of what once was between them.  
  
In the morning, he didn't leave before she awoke, but they could find nothing to say to each other. Without Alistair, Leliana became her comfort, and Marinelle was grateful that her old friend was there. She recovered comfortably, if not all that swiftly. Leliana was there for the bulk of her recuperation, departing for her long awaited gathering at Duke Prosper's chateau just a week before the Wardens contacted Marinelle again.  
  
The summons wasn't unexpected, just the timing of it. Whenever injured, she reported it to the Wardens, though by the time her missives reached them, she was usually well past her infirmities. This time, she was not, and hadn't expected to be moving again so soon. But the letter came with a guide - instead of another mission, it was a call for her to make her long delayed trip to meet the First Warden. Alistair argued against her going to Weisshaupt, undertaking such a long journey after her injury was foolhardy, but Marinelle couldn't ignore a request from the First Warden, any more than she could have turned down Alistair's request to accompany him in that parade. Whatever she did, she still served them.


	7. Specialist Training

 

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The Anderfels were a vast, grassy field of strange sights, creatures and people. Just as harsh as the tales, Marinelle had been prepared for everything but austere beauty of the place. It was stark and unyielding land, where there wasn't grassy fields, the sun bleached ground around her in various shades of white or tan with the occasional streak of snaking through it. When it wasn't flat and grassy, it was mountainous. They snow-capped peaks studded the landscape around them, making the winding paths through valleys especially dangerous. The vegetation was sparse and hardy at the base of the mountains, short green shrubs and hard grass poking out of the land, almost as razor sharp as the rocks that surrounded it.

Looking up the sides of the vast peaks, she could see that there were trees and greenery further off, but she had no inclination to get closer to see if they were familiar to her at all. Sticking to the paths and plains, she developed a great fondness for the land, so different than Ferelden. Around her, the place was bright, spiny and hard, but unexpectedly stunning, the skies clear most of the time, making her cap every day with spectacular sun scenes, every sunset full of more color than she'd ever seen in Ferelden. Each night was clear and starry, the stars looking somehow larger than she'd ever seen them before, twinkling brighter, their light almost too brilliant. It was a shame when she saw Weisshaupt in the distance, knowing that she'd be confined indoors and would miss it.  
  
Before they'd gotten to Weisshaupt, her escorts, who seemed more like templars escorting a runaway mage back to the Tower, had taken her to the Merdaine. A mountain with a likeness of Andraste carved into the face of the stone, it was a gigantic monument and popular pilgrimage spot for the devout Anders. Even from far away, she could see the fires of the eternal flame that blossomed in her hands, holding out light and warmth for all that would receive it. Pilgrims came from far and wide, staunch Andrastians that held their faith above everything else in their world, worshiping and weeping at the enormous base of the statue.  
  
Marinelle was a dwarf, but had come to learn all she could about the Maker and his Bride while on the surface. Such religious tales were at the very heart of all stories of darkspawn. But to only learn one version of a story is pure folly, and she'd sought out information about the Tevinter Chantry, the old elven gods and even her own Ancestors, though she was now counted amongst them. Not much was said about darkspawn, except that they were a scourge on the land, and she had the feeling that she, and everyone else was missing part of the story.  
  
Still, she appreciated the sight, glorious and gigantic, of Andraste before her. When she bent to offer a silent prayer, someone next to her patted her shoulder.  
  
"I know you are a dwarf, Warden." The man said in creaky voice with a heavy Anders accent. "But it is good you pray to Andraste."  
  
"Ser, I would no sooner ignore the bride of the Maker than I would turn away from any other holy shrine. It does not become anyone to be disrespectful." Marinelle said softly, earning a smile from the old pilgrim.  
  
Satisfied that they'd shown her one of the wonders of the Anderfels, her guides hurried her along to Weisshaupt. Just before they got to their destination, they passed through the city of Weisshaupt, more like a small town that simply bordered the giant fortress and provided for its needs. The people seemed to hail every Warden as a hero, and it was the first hospitality Marinelle encountered on her journey. It felt out of place to her though, they treated her like a courtier or some similar part of nobility, and not as a warrior. What Riordan said echoed in her mind and she saw that it was true, the Anders did look to their Wardens like rulers, setting them as warrior kings.  
  
Glad to be near the end of her journey, she stopped at the edge of the city and eyed the fortress laid out before her. The sheer size of it alone awed her. Weisshaupt shot up out of the ground, visible for miles all around it, towering above the city, always looming in the background. It was stark white, visible even at night, shining like a beacon. It looked old, and vaguely reminiscent of the ruins at Ostagar, suggesting a shared origin. Where those had been crumbling, these were still grand and intact, with spires that looked as if they reached the heavens. "This is amazing." Marinelle breathed upon seeing the structure.  
  
"You haven't seen anything yet, Warden. Just wait till we get close." The guide told her. The Warden sent to accompany her, Alveth, was quiet as he had been for most of their journey. She got the feeling that these Wardens weren't even going to bother trying to be friendly with her. There were two of them, one a warden and the other wasn't, but worked with them in some capacity. Alveth rarely spoke, and the other man, named Josef, talked less than his warden counterpart.  
  
It didn't bother her, at least, not as much as the worship from the townspeople had. Besides, she'd heard stories about the Anders Wardens, though she'd hoped they would be more welcoming to one of their own. Sharing the bond of tainted blood probably only got her the most basic of courtesies. Marinelle let their unfriendliness slide, she'd dealt with far worse in her life.  
  
The First Warden was a severe man who had been apprenticed to the last First Warden for some time and took himself very seriously. Being a Warden was very serious business in his eyes, and she doubted he would have looked kindly upon Alistair's wise cracking and bad jokes. He had little love for Marinelle, finding her solution to the Blight distasteful, and her attachment to Alistair even more so. Had he been more kindly, she would have thought him like Varel, her seneschal from Amaranthine. As it was, he was stern and stiff, his face flinching from time to time under the impassive mask he wore.  
  
"Tell me the whole story of the witches of the wilds, leaving nothing out Warden. You have no idea of the force with which you play." He said, giving her a stern look.  
  
It was their right to demand her to tell the story, but still Marinelle hesitated. It almost felt like a betrayal to recount it all, but whom she was betraying she wasn't sure. Morrigan, for sure, and possibly Alistair. It made her glad that he was no longer truly a part of this - he may have wanted to be a warden as opposed to a templar, but they would have drained all she loved out of him. Then again, it seemed like being King of Ferelden was doing a good job of that as well.  
  
After she'd been properly chastised by the First Warden, she was given leave to wander as she saw fit. Whatever his argument with her, there were no restrictions placed upon her, and she was treated like any other warden. That was more than she had hoped for - he would have been well within his right to imprison her, but she suspected he was too savvy for that. Getting back to the city would have been an issue if she'd wanted to go, she had no idea where they kept their horses or carriages, and it was much further than it looked. The terrain was deceptive like that. She wondered how they managed their supply lines, and how often people and things went out of the fortress. She got the feeling that people didn't leave that often. Still, she was fine just staying in Weisshaupt, eating with the other Wardens and sleeping in her assigned quarters. Somewhat isolated but mostly fine.  
  
At the beginning of her stay, the First Warden summoned her a few additional times to his office, each time questioning her at length. She was sure he was looking for cracks in her story, trying to pull out details that didn't make sense. Even after all these years, she could recall Ostagar with terrifying clarity. She would never forget that, not after the kindness Duncan had shown her and the empty feeling knowing that he was gone. All her brothers were gone, men she'd barely gotten to meet because they were too busy preparing for to drive the darkspawn back. King Cailan was gone, far too young and hopeful to die as he had. Even Loghain was gone, and she mourned him, a hero pushed too far and preyed upon. People didn't seem to care about what happened to their heroes once they were done saving them, but she understood Loghain far better now than she could have during the Blight.  
  
The other Wardens were of the same ilk as their leader, not inclined to like her, but at least respectful of all she'd done to serve. Not many of them spoke to her during her first days there, and Marinelle felt as if she were the casteless dwarf once more, but this time without the refuge of Leske and Rica to confide in. She missed Alistair more than she could possibly say in those days, and regretted the space that had come between them. Unconsciously, she touched her arm, in the spot where the arrow had pierced her. "I can't be king without you."  
  
How she wished that were true.  
  
Finally, after a week, she must have passed whatever litmus test they'd given her, because the First Warden summoned her again, not to talk but to reveal why she was brought to Weisshaupt.  
  
"As I stated in my letter, I think you have some importance in events yet to come. You will serve us better if you continue in your role as Warden-Specialist. To that end, we've devised a training program for you and some of the others here. Alveth is heading it up, he used to deal in information in Tevinter, and there are a few others here that will be helping. Former bards, espionage agents from different countries, a Dalish marksman, that sort of thing."  
  
Marinelle nodded, understanding that he'd grouped together the best to train them. It almost felt like she was part of an elite squadron, and again she thought of Loghain. He'd trained his Night Elves in much the same way during the rebellion. The thought was oddly comforting.  
  
"We need to change the way we fight the spawn, because they're changing. Who knows how many architects and the like are out there, or how far his influence spread. We need to be ready, be more than just fighters. We need knowledge, old and new at our disposal, survey teams that can help root them out where they live, places to shelter civilians should anything happen. Whatever else you've done, you've raised our profile and esteem in the eyes of outsiders, and for that service, I thank you."  
  
"I'm honored, ser." Marinelle bowed her head slightly. He turned away from her after acknowledging it, and she took her leave.  
  
It was like a camp of sorts, but instead of making crafts and friends, she learned espionage skills and tactics. When she was done with the instruction and physical trials, more often than not, Marinelle found herself in the libraries. There were vast archives of arcane knowledge, a quite a lot of it about Flemeth and Morrigan.  
  
The Wardens were not completely unaware of the ritual that had transpired between Morrigan and Alistair, but rather, were surprised that it had worked. A few of them seemed to understand why she'd done it, but they weren't the Anders. No, it was, strangely enough the Orlesians who were most sympathetic to her, understanding her duty, not just to the Blight, but her king and country, and her love.  
  
Flemeth was another matter altogether.  
  
They had volumes on her and the other Witches of the Wilds, which Marinelle poured over in her free time. Nothing was definitive, but they had gathered every account of her they could find, including, much to Marinelle's shock, a testimonial from one Loghain Mac Tir, years after he'd become the Hero of River Dane. His words were laced with doubt and the fogginess of recollection, but she could nearly hear his booming voice saying them aloud.  
  
"She unsettled King Maric with her fake prophecies and nonsense, and he believed her. She said nothing at all of consequence to me, and I believed her insane or possessed. Probably both." Marinelle snickered to herself as she read his testimony.  
  
The training, though short, took weeks of instruction, and then demanded practice. She was gone for a few months, and things in Ferelden were not altogether quiet in her absence.  
  
  
Varric sighed, looking around the group. "This, my friends is where our story gets more tedious. There is an unfortunate side effect to all that power that Grey Wardens have, and it is that they are generally unable to have children. Now that might not be strictly true in all cases, but I've never heard of a Warden having children after they'd joined the ranks."  
  
Someone in the crowd muttered something angrily, and Varric cocked his head to listen. "Damn nobles" was all he could make out, but that was enough.  
  
"I see you understand. Nobles, especially royalty, need heirs. King Alistair had none before he became a Warden. It presented a problem for the line of succession, and even more of a problem for our heroine, who was seen as not an appropriate consort for a human king."  
  
#####  
  
"Alistair, at least consider the possibility of marriage." Eamon said, standing on the other side of Alistair's desk. Both Eamon and Teagan were there, but where Eamon was arguing with their king, Teagan was standing in a corner with his arms crossed, looking sullen. It seemed that he didn't like what Eamon was saying any more than Alistair did.  
  
"Absolutely not. I won't have a fake marriage. Shouldn't some things remain sacred?" He asked, looking from Eamon to Teagan. Neither answered.  
  
"Eamon, leave it alone. He's already decided, and the least we can do is respect his decision." Teagan said, speaking up for the first time.  
  
"No, we didn't go through a civil war just to fight another once Alistair is gone. He's got the tainted blood of Warden, Teagan, we know that this can't last forever."  
  
Alistair grew angrier, his face coloring. "You knew that when you put me on the throne. There was slim to no chance of me begetting a child then, and there's less now that I've been tainted for longer. I will not marry some young woman and force her to endure me, knowing we likely won't have heirs." He stood up and turned his back on both of his guests before adding, "this discussion is over."  
  
Even Eamon knew a direct dismissal from the king when he heard one. Murmuring 'yes, of course, your majesty', both Teagan and Eamon backed from the room. It was ironic that Eamon was the most vocal about the need for an heir, considering that his own heir was unable to inherit. Connor, though he'd since honed his talent was a formidable young man, was still a mage and couldn't own property or have a title.  
  
Once word had gotten out that Marinelle had departed for the Anderfels, Eamon had come to Denerim. He hardly ever visited anymore, but the timing of this was suspicious. His uncle hadn't even come to court yet when he tipped his hand. While Elle was gone, a woman had been sent to his chambers as a treat, intended, no doubt to tempt him into an affair. Alistair had no intentions of being unfaithful, and he'd been a Warden for long enough to know that it was unlikely his body could produce an heir at this point. It was all just folly to him.  
  
But to the nobility it wasn't folly, but the fate of their nation. It gave him a dry amusement to know that they considered themselves patriots in this, their plans to seduce the lover of the woman who'd saved them all from the Blight. Twisted as the logic was, some thought it a duty to sleep with him and try to beget him another bastard, but this one for Ferelden and not magic, or whatever Morrigan was teaching his child. They became more brazen, the fire incited by Eamon's whispers. Women pressed bodily into him when they visited in court, dropped hints about his loneliness and even sent him favors. He ignored it all, and was less and less visible socially, preferring to spend time on his research.  
  
Painful though it was to admit, Eamon did have a valid point. Plans had to be made in case he died, otherwise it would disrupt the peace he'd worked so hard to achieve in Ferelden. Without blood relatives of the royal lineage, he could choose his heir, though he was loathe to trust much of the nobility. When it came down to it, he needed to fine a successor, and no one came to mind. He could change the law, so a mage could be titled and try to leave his place to Connor, but he doubted the Chantry would allow it.  
  
In the end, he named Teagan his heir and hoped his uncle wouldn't predecease him, at least not without siring a child of his own. It was the best he could do at this point. Perhaps in the future he could foster a child, help groom them for ruling. As he thought about the prospect, it tugged at his heart. That was something he and Elle had talked about in the early days, just after his coronation.  
  
She'd wanted to adopt one or more of the war orphans into the house, but he'd argued against it, ultimately getting his way in the end. The memory of those conversations, her tucked into the crook of his arm in the giant bed that hadn't felt like his at the time, made an unexpected lump in his throat. He missed her, but not just because she was gone now, he missed those times. It felt like too much distance had settled between them, and he barely knew her anymore.  
  
He didn't even know if they should be together anymore, they barely talked to each other. However sad it made him, he had been right about not adopting a child. No one should have to watch the demise of their relationship save for the two people trapped in it.


	8. Distance and Distraction

When Marinelle left the Anderfels, she was all too happy to be heading back to Ferelden. The other Warden-Specialists and she had never gotten to anything within the vicinity of friendly, and she desperately wanted to end their association. At home, there was Alistair, no matter how bad things had gotten between them, she always looked forward to seeing him.  
  
Things weren't happy at the palace upon her return. It felt as if Marinelle had fallen out of favor in her absence, and there were more than a few people that sniffed disdainfully at her whenever she wasn't in the company of Alistair, which was often.  
  
It wasn't the sort of thing that normally bothered her - as a Warden when Loghain was regent, they were practically pariahs. But somehow this, combined with the strange distance between her and Alistair made her worry. Without fail, it came to a head nearly a month after she'd come back.  
  
"Marinelle, good, I'd hoped I'd find you here." Alistair said to her, coming into her private study. She was opening correspondence from Orzammar, detailing the handling of her house, and the intricacies described in the multi-paged letter was beginning to make her head ache. Apparently there were some marriages coming up, and the couples or their families sought her blessing. What good it would do, she didn't know, but she'd planned to look at each request individually.  
  
She studied him for a moment, looking up over the parchment at him. In the firelight, he was as handsome as ever, even with the grey in his hair that had grown more pronounced recently. It made him look different though, proud, and fierce. She suspected he looked more like Maric now than he had in his youth. Marinelle frowned slightly as she looked him over. His words when he entered sounded hesitant, more like Warden Alistair than the King he'd grown to be. Things had been cool between them since her return. He'd been going to be late and waking up before her on most days, the time they spent together in private very limited.  
  
"Hello, Alistair. What's this about?" Marinelle kept her voice neutral, but she already had an idea. The sheen of sweat on his forehead said that this was a big talk.  
  
"You know that I love you." He started and Marinelle blanched. Right after the Landsmeet, he'd said those same words to her, hiding his feelings behind duty. He'd tried to break up with her then, and her gut told her the same talk was coming, years later, cropping up again like a bad case of the scratch.  
  
"Eamon's been on about an heir again, and I have to consider it, truly this time." He said. She started to open her mouth, but thought better of it, clamping it shut so he could go on. "And I need to think, really do some searching. Being King," he moved away from where he stood and started to pace her study, "has changed who I thought I was to the very depths of my being. I don't know if I like who I am anymore, or even who that is. Never before have Eamon's words given me pause, but not, I feel forced to consider it, and that makes me feel like an awful man, for putting you in this position. Had I been less selfish or open to alternatives in those early years, perhaps we could have already settled this issue."  
  
Marinelle just sat there, her mind whirring. Fidelity was never an issue between them, she trusted him wholeheartedly, and they'd taken a few other people to their bed. It was more than that, but it probably had been the thought that gave way to the others. Her mind conjured up scenes of Eamon preying on Alistair's insecurities and sense of duty, knowing that it caused a cascade of doubt within him. Calming herself, Marinelle pushed past her own insecurities to think about their situation.  
  
They hadn't been close in some time, not even her injury at the parade had succeeded in bringing them back together. Whatever was happening, Alistair was pulling away, going further into himself ever since she'd given him that scroll. He didn't want to talk, he wanted space, distance from everything, even the throne.   
  
There was so much between them, she owed him her life a dozen times over at least. He'd loved her from the very beginning, and they'd faced down a nation and the darkness together. If he needed space, she could do this for him, even though it broke her heart. It wasn't really about them, but about him, and to give him what he asked for would take all of her strength. Even in their growing distance, she'd taken comfort in knowing that Alistair loved her and was there, as he'd always had been. What he needed for her to do was support him, by backing away and letting him figure things out. It made her chest constrict with pain, the room seemed too small, his gaze too intense, the fire too warm, but she forced her voice to be calm and answered.  
  
"I love you too, Alistair. If this is what you need, then we will have our time apart. Perhaps it's time for me to go back to Orzammar anyway." She said, gesturing at the pile of parchment in front of her.  
  
"No! Please, don't go that far. I value your counsel, and I want you here, so long as you want to be here." He truly looked anxious at the suggestion, and she took small comfort in that.  
  
Marinelle gave him a tight, sad little smile. "Alright, but I'll need my own quarters." She said, uncomfortable with the thought of sharing his bed.  
  
Alistair laughed for the first time, though it sounded hard. "Officially, you've always had them. I can show you where the apartments for advisers to the Crown are located."  
  
Marinelle had never acquired many things, finding it impractical for her Warden life. Most of what she owned that wasn't clothes, armor or weaponry had been gifts from others, mainly her sister Rica and Alistair. After it was done, once she was gone from his quarters, Alistair looked around his room, not used to residing within it by himself. Even when she was gone, it had always been theirs, a shared space. It was as barren as he felt without her things there, and he wondered for the millionth time if he was doing the right thing. He just needed to think, without feeling like he was betraying anyone, without Eamon and his other cohorts breathing down his neck, and without hurting Marinelle more than he had to.   
  
Looking up, he stared for a long moment at the portrait of Moira that Marinelle had given him. It looked imperiously down at him, revealing nothing in its silent gaze. Sometimes he looked up at it just to remind himself that he belonged here, for he was just as royal as her son, his father. Then, he gazed at it to remind himself of why he'd done this, pushed away the woman he loved more than anything in the universe. He wished there was someone whom he could call on for counsel, someone who wasn't involved in politics, whom he wasn't in love with, just respected and thought wise. He missed Duncan.  
  
#####  
  
In the days after she separated from Alistair, she worked long hours and did her best to avoid him. Taking her meals at her desk, she pleaded pressures of work whenever anyone tried to get her attention. It had mainly been Teagan, who was present in the capital more often these days, and suspected that there was something amiss between her and Alistair. Marinelle didn't think Alistair had confided in anyone, and that worried her, until she realized that he wasn't hers to be worried about anymore. To anyone on the outside, she didn't let it show how much it bothered her, how absolutely broken her heart was. All of the time since he'd taken the crown, she'd been by his side, putting up with whatever came her way.   
  
And now she'd been asked to leave his bed, all the easier for her to exit his life. When she let herself think about, which was far too often for her liking, she could hardly breathe. The tears flowed thick and heavy, so much that she thought she might drown in them.  
  
When he didn't come to her the morning after she'd moved out of their room, not even to say hello, she tried to cry, her pain had certainly been great enough, but found herself too tired. It was only that next night did she start to cry, and once she did, she couldn't stop. After a week, she couldn't be distracted by work any longer, and needed, desperately to get out of the castle.   
  
Her sleeping had become erratic and she'd barely been eating, dangerous enough in a normal breakup, but worse with a Warden appetite. She needed to not think, to just see life carrying on, something, anything that would take her mind off of losing the greatest and most unexpected love of her life. Wrapped up in a shawl, she went to the docks to stare out at the sea, and look for dwarven fishermen. After all these years, she hadn't given up hope that she might one day find her fool of a father. These days, her faith in men was running a little thin, but it calmed her to see the blue water, shining like glass in the sun.  
  
She needed to leave before she shattered.  
  
#####  
  
Zevran was one of the last faces Alistair had expected to see waiting for him in his audience chamber, but not unwelcome. The former Antivan Crow had been dodging their assassins for years now, moving around from place to place, and turning up at the oddest times. He simply showed up as he pleased, sometimes turning up in court dressed in finery, and other times slipping into the castle to test the guard.  
  
"Zevran Arainai, at your service, Your Majesty. And may I say, you're still the strapping young man, Alistair. You haven't aged a day since the Blight, my friend."  
  
Alistair laughed, somehow soothed by Zevran's presence as he'd never been during their travels together. "I know you're just trying to flatter me, but it's welcome to hear. I feel old these days. How are you, Zevran?"  
  
"Fine, just fine. Where is your lovely dwarven consort? I wish to see your fellow Warden."  
  
"Uh, Elle and I, well, she's here, somewhere. We're not...it's hard to explain." Alistair found the words too difficult to voice. He'd never not been with Marinelle, but now he suddenly found himself trying to explain the situation to someone who only knew them as a couple.  
  
"Say no more, King Alistair. Time has a way of changing even the best of things." Zevran looked sad yet sincere as he said it, and Alistair was grateful.  
  
Zevran, as it conspired, had business in the city, what business, Alistair didn't ask, but he was always welcome at court. His return caused a stir among some of the nobles, and Alistair vaguely remembered hearing a rumor about a couple that Zevran had seduced and hid with for a few weeks. Those stories weren't fit for repeating and made his ears blush even to think about. Still, business went on, and without Elle helping him in any fashion, pleading pressures of her own work, Alistair came to rely on Zev. He felt terrible about Elle, knowing that she was avoiding him, but wanting to give her space to deal with this in her way. He'd found his way to her door more than a few times during the nights, each time leaving without knocking, walking back to him empty bed wishing things were different.  
  
It was Teagan that suggested a trip to the Free Marches, seconded by Zevran. Though Alistair's mind had been occupied by his own private questions, he had never let the plight of his people leave his mind at any moment. He had to go and see if he could make things right for the people that were still there, especially since Kirkwall was having its own difficulties after the Qunari siege. He would see if the Fereldans there would come home - for he knew it couldn't be any easier there than it was here, and at least this was home.   
  
Truly, the suggestion to go to the Free Marches pleased him, for it was outside of Kirkwall where Marinelle had found the scroll that about Flemeth. Once he consented to the journey, Teagan gave him yet more news of Kirkwall, the mages there were in a bad way. There were difficulties there between templars and mages, and dark rumors reached his ears. If he could apply his influence in a way to help, or at least discern if the rumors were at all true, he wanted to do it. Wynne had been pressing him for a while to be more involved with the mages and the Chantry, warning of what might happen if the unrest was left unchecked on both sides. The templar in him knew the horrors that could befall mages, but Teagan assured him that unlike what he'd seen at Kinloch Hold, the abuses in Kirkwall were due in part thanks to the Knight-Commander's hardness, and not the mages themselves.  
  
The only thing he hated leaving behind was Elle, but he'd made that choice long before they'd decided to go to Kirkwall.  
  
######  
  
True to their word, when the Wardens got wind of Morrigan, they alerted her. It came quicker than Marinelle would have thought possible from Weisshaupt, and she wondered how many more specialists the Wardens had put in Ferelden without telling her. The timing was good, she was still raw from Alistair asking her for space. Better than she'd been at first, but still hurting. All of Denerim was his space, and she an intruder in it. She would be glad to leave, even if it was for a short while, though she wondered at what she might find around Flemeth's Hut, the spot where they said a woman was spotted. Her last memories of the place were less than ideal.  
  
"I came to say goodbye." She said in a low voice, stepping back into the chambers she'd once shared with Alistair.  
  
It could only technically be called morning and inside his room was filled with the still dark that came just before dawn. Marinelle was standing over the side of his bed, having silently crept over to him. Her skills first learned with Leliana had been honed by her time with the Wardens, and she moved as invisibly as the wind, and nearly as quick.  
  
"Elle, is this business or are you leaving because of me?" Alistair sat up groggily, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.  
  
She considered him for a moment before answering, "A little of both, perhaps. But the Wardens want me to investigate Morrigan after all these years." She replied.  
  
"We should talk about us. There are things I should say, and I miss you. I miss you so much." His husky voice revealed the truth of his words.  
  
"I miss you, too. When I come back, okay? This isn't the time - you might make me stay, and I would want to, but neither of us can shirk our duties."  
  
Alistair sighed at that. "No, I guess we can't. We never were able to get away from them before." He reached up, unsure if she would receive his kiss or not, but she did, her soft, familiar lips parting as he pressed against them.   
  
He wanted it to last forever, for her to crawl into his bed and become his whole world again. There was nothing more alluring than the thought of losing himself in her, letting her light become his sun, but after their kiss, she pulled away and walked soundlessly to the door.  
  
"Come back safe, love." Alistair said to her just before she exited. His words pulled at her heart, and she steeled herself against them. Oh, how she wanted to stay, to get into his bed, and lay there, back where she had felt safe and loved.  
  
"I always do."  
  
#####  
  
"You've heard the tales of the Blight, and the witch, Morrigan who accompanied the Warden? Well, this meeting was the end to their story." Varric explained to the crowd.  
  
"The witch bade Marinelle not to look for her, but in the end, it came down to who was issuing the orders. The Wardens wanted Morrigan found for their own reasons, and sent the one person that might succeed in finding her."  
  
"Did she?" A hushed voice asked.  
  
"Indeed, after gaining a few allies and solving an ancient elven mystery of sorts. But you know how things go for the hero types - every question answered brings up four more and contradicts the known facts."  
  
Varric sat there, letting the tension build in his story before going on. "And while our good heroine was away, all the King's resistances came crumbling down."


	9. Alistair in Kirkwall

He had to tell someone about, well everything, at least what he was searching for, and while en route to Kirkwall, Alistair confided in Zevran. He wasn't sure why he picked the elf instead of Teagan, rationalizing it to himself as a spur of the moment choice. Zev had never known Maric, and would never know anything but stories of his father. It seemed right to have that distance, to speak of him as just King Maric. He also trusted Zevran, in a strange way after all these years.   
  
Yes, he had tried to kill them once, and yes, Alistair hadn't trusted him during most of their time together fighting the Blight. But Elle trusted him and let him stay, and Alistair deferred to her judgment. Since then he had come to value Zevran, as unlikely of an ally as he was, he had never been tempted to betray them or do anything to broadcast his association with the throne of Ferelden. His restraint had proven his honor, and Alistair had eventually come to regard him as a friend.  
  
"I've been looking for my father." Alistair said, after summoning him to his private cabin one morning. Their journey was going relatively quickly, the seas and skies were clear, and they were making decent time. He hoped it was a good omen for their whole venture.  
  
"I was under the impression that he was deceased, since you now sit upon his throne." Zevran's face was carefully closed, not betraying any reaction to the statement. If he was shocked that Alistair was looking for King Maric, he hid it well.  
  
Alistair shook his head. "After all these years, I'm not certain that's the case. Things have been happening, and they all go back to him. Nothing makes any sense."  
  
Zevran was quiet for a long time, considering. "I assume you have evidence."  
  
"Of course. Elle's found some things over the years," Alistair chuckled softly thinking of the portrait of Moira that she'd brought from Amaranthine, "you know, this is probably all her fault. She gave me a gift that got me digging further into my past, trying to find a connection with all this royal stuff. But after all these years, I don't know, some of it just isn't making sense. There's less and less that points to Maric being dead and more that says he wanted to be gone, to just disappear. But what I don't know is why, what man could do this? How could he walk away from his country, his son and watch the fallout?"  
  
Zevran said nothing in response to his statement for several long moments. It nearly made Alistair uncomfortable, waiting for him to make a response, but when he did, Zevran was grave. "Are you determined to do this?"  
  
"I am."  
  
"Then let me warn you, my friend, about searching for ghosts. Sometimes they are better left undisturbed. The answers you find, searching for this father of yours may not be the ones you want to hear at all."  
  
Obstinately, Alistair shook his head. "I don't believe that. Not about Maric. He needs to answer questions, things I need to know. A king doesn't just abandon his duty."  
  
"Neither does a Warden, some would say."  
  
"I haven't abandoned the Wardens!" He spat hotly, enraged at the accusation. Fury grew within Alistair, but Zevran looked as cool as ever.  
  
"Perhaps we are not speaking of the same thing. I have in mind a particular Warden, not a group."  
  
"Oh." Alistair sighed, eyes downcast as he thought of Elle. The anger that had burned so brightly within him moments ago all dissipated, and he felt tired for its loss. "It's temporary." He didn't know if it was, but that was all he could think to say at the moment.   
  
He'd wanted space and time to do this on his own, to figure things out. Part of him was still upset with her for excluding him. He still considered himself a Warden, yet he was privy to only the most public of their business. She hid things from him, after all the time they'd spent together, being the last Wardens in Ferelden. It hurt, he hurt, and didn't know what to do about it. Another side of him was more rational, knowing that it wasn't strictly her fault, but he was hers, she could tell him anything and he would take it to his grave. That she didn't made him more and more upset as the years passed, and so he'd kept this is secret from her, his mission, the interest in Maric. Alistair shook his head, unsure if it was just his pride stinging or if he'd pushed her away for good reasons.  
  
"But she is gone, off on her business. Shall she return? She did not say, and the servants think she will be gone indefinitely." Zevran was echoing sentiments that Teagan had badgered him with the morning she left, and he couldn't face them now anymore than he had then.  
  
"It's temporary." Alistair repeated, willing himself to believe it. She'd kissed him before they'd parted, just like old times. He had to believe she still loved him, and would understand. He would make it up to her.  
  
"There are those that think life merely a temporary affliction." Zevran said with a harsh laugh. "Do not let it go on too long, if you want to make things right between you."  
  
Alistair held up his hand, not wanting to hear more. Zev wasn't saying anything he hadn't already thought himself. Things were difficult, in more ways that one, but he had to believe that Elle still loved him and would be understanding when he explained it all.  
  
"I assume I've made my point about that, but your research presents me with a chance to be of help."  
  
"Go on." Alistair said.  
  
"I know the story that is told of how your father perished at sea, and I propose we start there. Any physical trail he left would be long gone after all these years, but there are always people willing to talk. There is a man high up within the Crows, Claudio. Prince Claudio Valisti." Zevran gave a small snort, as if he couldn't believe Claudio worthy of the title of prince.   
  
Reluctantly, he went on, glancing around the room before he did. "He's a Crow and Prince of Antiva, who knows every connection, legitimate and otherwise. He may be of help with the missing ship your father was on, and what happened to the people that were on it with him. Surely, not every single person died, unless that was how it was supposed to look. If there is cause to believe something was amiss, Claudio would know about it. I can put you in contact with him, but don't expect his help to come without a price, Alistair."  
  
"I'll deal with that later." Alistair said greedily, glad to have found a lead, anything that might point him to Maric.  
  
"Of that I have no doubt."  
  
#####  
  
Kirkwall looked worse for the wear, although Alistair had never seen it before he stepped ashore. Faded scorch marks lingered on the plaza square, and there were precious few stones that weren't damaged or broken. There were places where gating had been replaced, new iron soldered into old fixtures, both slightly out of place together. Where vegetation, curling vines and shrubs once grew, there were new plants, small and inadequate in their place, or sometimes nothing at all. A number of miniature memorials had cropped up, and the people wore the long suffering, hang-dog expression of those tired of change but in need of more of it.   
  
It simply reminded him too much of Denerim after the final battle of the Blight, and he could only imagine the ferocity of the battle that had taken place. It saddened him, and strangely reminded him of Elle, remembering her determination to save as much as she could, even the alienage as she fought through the city. That had been one of the scariest moments of his life, and in some ways, the best. His last, greatest stand as a Grey Warden. As it goes, defeating the Blight isn't too bad for a last stand.  
  
Knight-Commander Meredith was quicker than he'd anticipated, and though he'd dashed off a note and sent it along with Zevran, she got to the Viscount's Keep before the Champion of Kirkwall.  
  
Alistair blushed when he saw Captain Isabela with Hawke. He tried to focus on the dwarf and the young Dalish woman that completed the group, but Isabela wouldn't be ignored. If he wasn't going to mention their time together, she was. Maker, his trip to her ship with Elle, and the things they'd done there, it felt like a lifetime ago.   
  
"She sounds beautiful! Luscious in all the right places." A voice piped up, faceless from the background of the tavern. Varric chuckled, remembering that the pirate could throw her voice. She'd spent a whole night tricking Aveline once at the Hanged Man, before the guard captain stuck an angry finger in her face and threatened to arrest her.  
  
"Oh she is as beautiful as she is deadly, my friends. Don't ever cross blades with the Pirate Queen of the Eastern Seas if you can help it." Varric said, smirking up towards where Isabela stood at the bar. She feigned nonchalance, but her dark eyes twinkled as she sipped her drink.  
  
  
When his official diplomatic duties were finished, he still had tasks to attend to, and precious little time. Alistair didn't have the luxury to go around the city as Marinelle had, but Zevran was more than willing to help. After taking his note to the Champion of Kirkwall, he'd vanished into the mountainside, taking a copy of the scroll to the Dalish to see if they knew anything else about it or Flemeth. He was unexpectedly quick about the venture, coming back with information before the Ferelden delegation's lingering presence could become suspicious.  
  
Alistair nearly drove Teagan insane while they were waiting. Too keyed up to make an official visit through Kirkwall, and with no Viscount to entertain them, they wound up having dinner with the seneschal. He was an unpleasant sort, fussy and pretentious, and the woman with him was certainly not his lady wife. Teagan disliked him greatly, further straining the already awkward meal. It was left to Alistair to make conversation, and it was a half-hearted attempt at best. He'd have preferred dinner at a tavern, face covered in a disguise, but Teagan wouldn't allow it. At least the food was good, if a little too Orlesian inspired for his tastes.  
  
With Zevran's help, the trip was more fruitful than expected. Flemeth, though they'd fought her and slain the dragon, lived, according to the Dalish. About the scroll, they knew nothing, though the Keeper thought it was an elven hand that wrote it, for they used Flemeth's Dalish name, Asha'bellanar, and his description of the scroll, especially the bright red blood-like ink, sounded like their old magics. She thought it might date from just after the fall of the Dales, when her people began their wandering and may have re-encountered the witch, but couldn't be sure. Nothing was sure. In any case, it didn't sound like any recent run in with Asha'bellanar she'd heard about.  
  
What deal could have been made, or information found by the writer was completely gone, and the Dalish had no way of discerning what it was. Regaling Zevran with her own few stories about Asha'bellanar, the woman of many years, the Keeper had urged him to tell Alistair to drop the quest and keep himself safe. It was a sentiment echoed by Teagan upon Zevran's return.   
  
Alistair gave in and told his uncle about the whole search for Maric and the information that he'd found so far. It shocked him into quiet for so long, Alistair thought that he might have to call around for some brandy or a healer. His concern was for naught, Teagan was sufficiently roused when he announced his intent to go and search for Maric, once he found a lead. Alistair and Teagan rarely argued, but when they did, it was fierce. Outside the room where they bellowed at each other, the guards shifted uncomfortably, pretending as though they heard nothing.   
  
Once Zevran returned, it was past time they departed Kirkwall. Every moment he was in the city felt like he was overstaying his welcome. Templars just kept happening by whenever he tried to move about the city, as if Meredith wasn't spying on him. He couldn't leave fast enough, missing Ferelden and Marinelle. At the Viscount's Keep, Teagan mentioned that the 'Hero of Ferelden' was returning to from her trip soon, and there was no one Alistair wanted to see more. When they went to the docks to return home, Zevran didn't accompany them, preferring not to be in one place for too long. Alistair understood, he didn't want the Antivan Crows showing up at his palace, but he worried for Zevran.  
  
"Fear not, my friend. I will be fine. The Dalish on Sundermount are most accommodating and have the best caves this side of the Deep Roads. Plenty of places for Zevran to hide from pesky Antivan Crows. I would not wish to put your life in danger again my friend, when you seem to do such a good job of it yourself."  
  
Alistair chuckled at the rebuke, true though it was. "Keep safe, Zevran." He said as a goodbye.  
  
"Or what, you'll come and give me a good lashing?" He laughed. "Promises, promises, my Warden King. I will try to be safe, so long as you do the same."  
  
That wasn't a promise either of them could make.


	10. Reconcilliation

He'd made a mistake, a big damn mistake, not telling her his suspicions about Maric. Zevran had given him so much more than information, but insight into life. It was time to tell Elle, to talk and get it all out before it was too late. He didn't think he could do what he needed to do without her support. Alistair was in dire need of comfort, of her wisdom. He couldn't shake the feeling that someone out there, someone besides Zevran and his associate, Claudio, knew what he was doing, who he was looking for, and was watching him. Paranoid, yes, but he didn't ignore his gut feelings.   
  
It was time for him to explain, to apologize to Elle. Alistair needed her if he was to go on. She was already in residence when his boat docked in Denerim, and he rode to her without delay.  
  
"I need to explain everything to you." Alistair said, after greeting her and welcoming her back to the palace. Elle raised her eyebrows at her warm reception, her last homecoming not nearly as welcoming. After he'd found her, he'd taken her back to his private chambers, and locked the door, pouring both of them a measure of wine before going on. Even though he'd just finished his journey, he found he wasn't tired, but full of nervous energy, wondering what she might say to him.  
  
It was slow going, the story halting and scant in places, Alistair admitting that there was much he didn't know. But one thing he did know, he needed to look for Maric, or evidence that proved he was dead, which Alistair no longer believed was the case. Doing his best to explain to Marinelle why he'd been looking for all these years, he found himself at a loss of where to start. It truly started with the portrait gift that he as given. He would stare at it and wonder about his grandmother, about the son she'd birthed as an exiled queen in her own country. He never knew who Maric's father was, or anything more than legend about the Rebel Queen. Curiosity about Moira and Maric prompted him to find out more.  
  
Oft times, though he was loathe to admit it, he wished for someone like Loghain, though he couldn't bring himself to regret beheading the Hero of the River Dane. Someone close to Maric that had a good measure of him would have been invaluable during his search, since everyone remembered Maric as a saint, not as a real man. If there was a Maric worth his time, it would be the man, not the King of Ferelden.  
  
She listened in silence, though she had her own tale to tell. Marinelle was quiet the whole way through, not even asking her questions, just simply listening.  
  
It was difficult for Marinelle to come back to Denerim, to face Alistair. There were things about Morrigan that he should be told, and she was the only one that could deliver the news, though she didn't relish the thought.  
  
He wasn't at the palace when she arrived, but was due back from his own trip to the Free Marches shortly after. The official story was that he went there to seek out the Champion of Kirkwall, someone by the name of Hawke from Lothering, and to offer aid in for displaced Fereldans still there. She'd known there was another agenda, possibly involving that scroll she'd given him, but since she was gone when he left, there was no way to confirm her suspicions.  
  
The news she had practically burned on the end of her tongue, and she had to will herself not to blurt it out. After he told his story, exhausting himself, she didn't know how to summon the courage to tell him what had transpired.  
  
Marinelle told him much of the Wardens that she'd been holding back since they'd split. She talked of being proactive, the world beneath them changing without them being any the wiser, and too many factions. She wanted to search instead of respond to the changes, and told him of her training at Weisshaupt. He was fascinated as they talked into the night, wrapping his arms around her when she shivered.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me about Maric? I could have helped." She asked.   
  
"Why didn't you tell me what you were doing for the Wardens?"  
  
"It's not the same, Alistair." Marinelle sighed. "And it's nothing like we thought it would be. I thought defeating the Blight would be the hardest thing I ever had to do, but apparently not. Most of the time, I don't even know what I'm looking for, I'm just following suspicions, rumors and speculation. I wanted to keep from you, if I could, how grim and awful it can get."  
  
He wasn't expecting that answer, and they sat for a while in silence, as he digested it. "I'm sorry. It wasn't right to get angry about it and use that anger to cut you out. Forgive me." He put his hand on her knee, rubbing the spot through her gown.  
  
"Are things back to normal between us?" She asked.  
  
"If you want me back."  
  
"I never wanted you to go, but I could tell that you needed space." She sighed. "It's been so long, Alistair, and you've never once given into the pressures of Eamon or anyone else to have an heir. I thought if I gave you that space, you might do what you needed to do."  
  
"I did. But what I needed wasn't about siring a child, but understanding my father."  
  
Alistair's hand drifted down her arm, caressing her in hopes of tempting her out of her silence. She'd been mostly quiet since her return, and he knew her well enough to let her work it out on her own terms. Seven years since the end of the Blight, and more than eight since they'd first met. Time had a way of slipping by and crawling all at once.  
  
"I take it you found Morrigan." Alistair's voice was grave as he spoke, and Marinelle nodded at his words.  
  
"You have a son."  
  
"A son. Are you certain? You met him?" Alistair asked, his voice catching. He was hopeful, so hopeful and it ripped at her heart to hear it. She shook her head.  
  
"He wasn't there, but someplace Morrigan described as safe and beyond my reach. He has been raised as an innocent, but she didn't betray anything else about him."  
  
He didn't get up, but rather settled around her, wrapping his long legs around her, locking Marinelle in his arms. Once he rested his chin on the top of her head, she had to smile. They'd sat like this many times, his chest pressed to her back, the two of them even breathing in tandem, her exhalation to his inhalation.  
  
"Did she say anything else?"  
  
"Flemeth lives." Marinelle informed him, closing her eyes. The last conversation with Morrigan haunted her. "And that the ritual we prevented was just a means to an end. Morrigan warned that we should hunt her if we hunt anyone. According to her, her mother is no blood mage or abomination, nor even truly human any longer. I got the feeling that Morrigan, at least in her mind was doing something very noble, and putting aside her own desires. For what end, I cannot even fathom."  
  
"I knew that she survived. She helped the Champion of Kirkwall flee Ferelden in exchange for taking a trinket to an elven altar and releasing part of her bound in it."  
  
They sat together, plunged into silence once again, both minds working. Marinelle was exhausted, unable to discern any more from the cryptic words than she had at the time they'd been said.   
  
Eventually they lay down together, both too consumed with their own thoughts to be enticed by physical pleasure. Her stuff would be moved back in the morning, but that night they were both too tired, and she slipped back to her own room only for night clothes. She didn't think about the morning, how she'd have to either send a maid or walk through the halls in her clothes from the night before.  
  
"I never asked about the Free Marches." They'd talked so long about what led him there, she hadn't heard much about the trip itself. "How was your trip?" Marinelle said sleepily into his chest, once they'd both settled into bed. Surprisingly, Alistair let out a snort of cynical laughter that sounded most unlike him.  
  
"I'll tell you in the morning. The political situation there is even worse than I'd heard." He said, deliberately dodging any mention of his own mission, or his last conversation with Zevran.  
  
She just had time to admire how cunning he'd become before she drifted off to sleep.  
  
She understood now what the Wardens were so scared of, and why her role was so important. Long had her order responded to the Blights, finishing them off for the rest of the world. It was time for things to change, for them to alter their ambitions to match the new darkspawn. They needed to be hunters instead of problem solvers, proactive instead of prey.  
  
That night, a storm raged over Denerim, lightning flashing throughout the night. It woke them both, back to sharing a bed for the first time in a while, falling easily into their old routine. His first kiss was sloppy, a little sleepy and warm, but affectionate. She returned it with equal ardor, and before either of them knew it, he'd pushed her smallclothes aside. It wasn't ideal, they were both still dazed, fatigue catching up with them from their long travels, but as a spark of light illuminated the room, Alistair took in the rapturous look on her face as he pressed into her. He was home.  
  
In the morning, she'd intended to hear about his trip, but their talk of it was always shunted aside. It took her a while before she realized Alistair was deflecting her questions, and resolved to let him have his privacy. He'd just confided in her about the whole search, she needn't press him for details yet. Between them things didn't feel as if they were back to normal, but rather, carefully stepping out onto new ground. Alistair had changed, and so had she, changing their whole union. Though it wasn't her preferred way to get through hard times, their separation had given them a chance to come back together as the people they had become, not the ones that had met at the beginning of the Blight.  
  
They took their time together, and it felt like a new courtship, well, their only real courtship. Alistair doted on her, and Marinelle felt herself remembering all the little things that she'd fell for. They spent long hours together, her taking him through her specialist training and trip to the Anderfels, both of them speculating about the intentions of the Grey Wardens and what it might mean for them, for Ferelden. Their happiness was evident, though not shared by every onlooker. A few weeks later, a curious event happened to spur him into speaking. True to both her and Zevran's words, whatever Alistair had done in his search had alerted someone, though they carefully kept in the dark as to whom was behind it all.  
  
She was with him when an odd, single sheet of parchment was delivered along with the morning correspondence. They were sitting in the breakfast room, light shining in the windows overhead, her face buried in a book she'd 'borrowed' from Weisshaupt. She had a feeling she needed to learn as much as possible about magic and history before she could truly understand what was happening in Thedas. Distracted, Marinelle ate, one of her short legs resting across his lap under the table. She was comfortable, and only vaguely hearing Alistair's morning grumbles as he opened letters next to her, until he started shouting.  
  
"What could this mean? Who wrote this letter?" Alistair was shouting, the guards outside the door rushing in at the sound of his raised voice. Marinelle shook her head when he looked in her direction, she had no answers for him. Her leg slid off of him as he stood up suddenly, his face thunderous.  
  
"Find me the messenger who delivered this letter!" Alistair demanded, slipping into the role of King effortlessly. It amazed her after all these years, how well it fit him.  
  
The palace was scoured, but there was no sign of the hooded courier that had brought the parcel of letters. The servants were interviewed by the guards, though none had anything of much interest to offer up.  
  
"Maric may still be alive, young King. There are secrets that must be handed down, duties to be upheld." He read off, though he'd read it several times already.  
  
Marinelle chose her words carefully, looking at Alistair as he paced around the room. "How long have you been searching for your father?" The question wasn't something they'd really addressed, she knew her picture of Moira had sparked his interest, but there had to have been a definite turning point when he began to look for Maric, and not just information about him.  
  
Alistair stiffened. "Since you came back from the Free Marches with that scroll." He confessed. "I didn't think it meant anything, but now, I'm not so sure. There are things I need to know. It was why I went there, in part."  
  
"You may have tipped your hand inadvertently at some point." Marinelle counseled. "But this doesn't mean you can't keep looking. Alistair, I know I've said it before, but be careful. You don't know what's out there."  
  
Alistair nodded at her, but she knew he hadn't really heard her words. It was enough that he was calmer, no longer pacing. After the odd delivery, the two of them were set firmly on their guard, wanting to find out just who knew what Alistair was looking for, and what part they may have had in it.  
  
#####  
  
"That trip to Kirkwall was the first time that yours truly met His Highness." Varric explained. "Whatever it was that he sought there, he made sure that we stayed in regular contact."  
  
"Are you still in contact with him?" A voice asked from the crowd.  
  
"In a manner of speaking." Varric replied evasively. "Not right at this second, but I don't think I'd find myself unwelcome should I go to Ferelden and call on the court."  
  
A low whistle greeted his statement, and he felt his worth rise in the eyes of his audience. This was new - he'd always let people draw their own conclusions about what his role was in the story. An outright admission of his connection with Alistair was risky, but then again, he wanted this story told in case they didn't come back.   
  
Isabela however, looked as if she wanted to interrupt, but settled for shooting him a covert grin. In truth, before this trip Isabela had known far more about King Alistair than he had before this trip, and she'd only spent a few hours on her ship with him and the Warden. Brief though the encounter was, through it and stories, she got a good measure of who Alistair and the Warden were as people. Many things could be said about Isabela, but that she was a poor judge of character wasn't one of them.  
  
"The real significance of that meeting was lost even to me at that time." Varric admitted. "It seems the King wasn't ready to be forthcoming about his actions. When we met again, even then, he was cautious. That note put him on his guard."  
  
#####  
  
It was obvious how much it taxed him to speak of Maric, so Marinelle didn't pursue the subject. Whenever they were together, she let him speak on it only if he brought it up or she had a specific question, which was a rare occurrence. Oft times, they worked at repairing their relationship, what was inadvertently lost when they separated, what was broken or strained before. There was laughter between them when there hadn't been for so long, so long that Marinelle hadn't noticed when they'd stopped laughing together, only marking its return. He took her further into his confidence, not just sharing what he'd learned, but what he hoped and speculated about as they spent more time together. She marveled at all he'd pieced together on his own, and offered what felt like trivial commentary, but Alistair assured her that he liked hearing her perspective of things.  
  
But as it grew more apparent that Alistair needed to search, to leave Denerim and get his own answering, Marinelle's trepidation grew. She worried about him. It had been a long time since Alistair had done more than spar, even longer since he'd had to fight for his life. He wasn't soft my any means, but he was a diplomat more than warrior these days, and was still headstrong in a fight. She had other worries, deeper concerns about the person he was searching for, but kept them to herself. This was hard enough for him.  
  
Prince Claudio Valisti, his Crow contact had given him information pointed towards Antiva, and Alistair wanted to call on the man himself to look him in the eye and see whether he was telling the truth. Survivors from Maric's 'shipwreck' had been picked up by raiders and taken to Antiva. More than that, neither of them knew definitively, and Claudio wasn't forthcoming with the knowledge.   
  
"I have to go, you know that."  
  
"Alistair, this could be an assassin's trap. You are King of Ferelden, there could be any number of people wanting to have you killed or worse." She pointed out.  
  
She expected him to fight, to protest her, but instead he pulled her close and planted a kiss on the top of her head. "I know." He replied. It was all he said. Whatever fate was to come, he had already accepted it. She could do nothing, but wish him well as he left.  
  
For the first time in years, truthfully since the Blight, there was real desperation in their coupling. That evening when they came together, he worshiped her wholeheartedly, putting as much emotion into the encounter as he could muster. Alistair loved Marinelle, honestly and truly, and her support in this meant more than he could say. He tried to let her know through more than just whispered words, telling her through his kisses, the way he held her and caressed her that night. He made himself be only there, wanting to commit every feeling to memory.   
  
Marinelle rested her head on Alistair's chest, listening to the soothing rhythm of his heart beating beneath her ear. It sounded strong, sure, and she realized that she'd been listening to it for almost a decade since they first met. She'd always loved him, and tears sprung to her eyes as she thought about it. Things felt more dangerous than ever, even that last night before facing the archdemon. A sense of foreboding filled her, and nothing she thought could clear the gloom from her mind.  
  
"I love you." She said, her voice thick with emotion. Alistair tilted his head up, looking down at where she lay against him.  
  
"I love you too, my dear. Are you alright?"  
  
"Yes. No. Perhaps. I just was thinking about everything, you and I, the past, the future, and it's been a long time for us. A long time together, ever since Ostagar."  
  
"I know. I think about it often." He chuckled. "Remember when I said that I was glad that you were you and not some other Warden? I think that still. I can't imagine this life without your support."  
  
She smiled, and he felt it on his skin, the spread of her lips rubbing against him as she remembered his words.  
  
"It's an awful thing to wish for that time, but sometimes I do. Our duties, everything seemed so much clearer then." As she spoke, she let her hands drift over his body, the movements in equal measures sweet and arousing.  
  
"It would be a lie if I said I'd never entertained similar thoughts." He said. "But forward is the only way we can go, even if we have to step back to get there. You and I, after this, we'll meet at our place."   
  
She nodded knowing exactly where he meant. They had secrets, the two of them, from the Wardens, from Ferelden, from the whole of Thedas, but not from each other anymore. "It doesn't mean that I won't worry about you, Alistair. This plan of yours seems a little more than far-fetched, but I know that won't dissuade you."  
  
His chuckle hardly made it out of his chest, but she felt the laughter. "And all of your adventures, Warden-Specialist, aren't just as mad? Let me have this one, to try and find answers for myself."  
  
"Alright." Marinelle saw his point. "But Alistair, I know how much the world has changed, and there is much more evil about. Something stirs deep under our feet, just out of reach. Be ever on your guard, and may the Stone protect you, my love."  
  
He reached down to bring her face to his, seeking out her lips for a kiss. Afterwards, they fell asleep, both of them still nude, entwined together.


	11. A King's Errand

The castle as well as the city of Denerim was a flurry of activity just before he left. There were the usual arrangements and the contingencies, a plan put in place every time the king left the city. There were unexpected developments to deal with, more fighting around the world. Kirkwall had just been subject to another battle, this time between templars and mages, and many had fled, bringing some displaced countrymen back to Ferelden's shores for the first time in nearly a decade.  
  
Alistair was dealing with a lot of unknowns on his own trip as he prepped to leave, and glad for any assistance he could get. How he had done it, she wasn't sure, but Alistair had retained the services of the pirate Isabela and a friend of hers. Last thing Marinelle had heard was the woman was in Kirkwall but without a ship, and wasn't sure how she'd gotten back to Denerim. They were leaving from the docks in just a few days time, not lingering so word of Alistair's departure could get out. For all appearances in court, Alistair seemed himself, and gave no hint that he would soon be leaving.  
  
An eagle-eyed observer might have spotted a few curious changes, but not enough to make anything of it. Teagan's return to Denerim coincided with Alistair departure, and he was to be regent in his absence. After long last, they'd taken Teagan into their complete confidence, explaining to him all they knew from Alistair's research and her work with the Wardens. Though Teagan was no stranger to the mysteries of magic and the odd hand it often played in fate, to say he was shocked would be putting it far too mildly. She regretted burdening him with such information, but if he was to rule in Alistair's stead, he needed to know.  
  
They talked well into the night during those last days. Alistair assured her that this was what he needed, just as she'd needed to go to Orzammar and be there herself, to come to terms with her status as a living Paragon. It had been a difficult journey, long and private, and Marinelle understood. This wasn't just for Maric or Calenhad, this was for Alistair, the boy that hadn't felt wanted by his father and needed far too many questions answered. There were always questions, things that needed answers, which brought up more questions in the end. Perhaps that was simply the way of life, but she wished Alistair's questions weren't so deadly, and the answers so far from home.  
  
Whatever Elle worked on kept her from him during the days, but they stayed together at night. Though at the time he'd felt he'd needed the time apart, he cursed himself in retrospect. He could never feel as comfortable or happy as he did with Elle around. Indeed, he didn't think he could leave Ferelden without knowing that she and Teagan would be there, working together in his absence.  
  
On the day of his departure, the skies were overcast and drizzling, an ominous sign. Alistair rose early as was his custom, but not as early as his lover. She was already gone from their bed, and he wondered if she'd even slept. There were times when she had trouble still, plagued by dreams that had haunted her since the Joining. The dreaming itself was perturbing enough for her, but no matter how much time passed, she still had dreams of the archdemon. He wished that she hadn't joined the Wardens during a Blight - perhaps that would have given her a measure of peace she hadn't known.  
  
After a quick breakfast with still no sign of her, he sent a man out to get her. It would be time for him to depart for the docks soon, and she'd promised to go with him. He paced while he waited, the repetitive action soothing to his overburdened mind. There was so much he had to do once on the ship, things that needed to be taken care of at the next port, but he couldn't go without saying goodbye. It was still and would always be their rule. No leaving without a goodbye. He'd seen her off to Amaranthine, she'd kissed him goodbye when he went to Orlais on his first 'royal' trip. Even when they'd been taking a break, he'd gotten a goodbye kiss. But this time, he felt much more trepidation, even more than when she went off on Warden business.  
  
"Waiting for me?" Marinelle said, breathless as she ran up to him. Her hug was as fierce as ever, and he lamented that the nights were never long enough for him. All these years, even after practically living in her tent during the Blight, he'd never get enough of her.  
  
"Of course I am. I couldn't leave without our goodbyes."  
  
"Alistair, are you sure you don't want me to go with you?" Marinelle asked one final time as she frowned up at him. Her arm was locked just under his waist, her palm spread over his bottom affectionately as she hugged him to her as they spoke.  
  
He shook his head at her. "This is something I need to do on my own, and you've Warden business to attend to in my absence. If not now, it's a certainty they will send word to you again. I know how much you miss our little adventures across Ferelden, but this isn't the time to recreate them." He said jokingly, but she wasn't fooled.  
  
"Do you think you'll find what you're looking for?" She asked.  
  
"I've hired good guides and I have information that could lead me to him. Maric. My father." He said, but she shook her head at him.  
  
"That's not what I meant, and you know it."  
  
"I don't know. I hope to find some answers, but I don't know to what questions." He said, sighing. "Maybe all I'll find is more questions, but they'll be different than the ones I've been pondering for years."  
  
"At least that's honest. Be safe, my love." Marinelle said, lifting her face to his for a kiss.  
  
They stood there, just stood together long after their kiss was ended, he idly playing with her slightly longer than normal, dark hair, and she wrapped tightly around his waist. When the guard knocked on the door, they were still embracing, and Alistair leaned down for another kiss.  
  
"Come back soon, I love you." Marinelle whispered to him.  
  
"I will try. I love you, too." Alistair said back. They left the room together, walking side by side as he left the castle. They never displayed themselves in public, but he didn't need to, he liked the privacy of their farewells in the palace. She went with him to the docks, watched his ship pull away into the distance, the low fog obscuring her view.  
  
Alistair hadn't been back to Ferelden since he'd pulled away from Denerim that dreary, foggy day, and he was their King. But every man needed answers, and he deserved to hear them from the one person that could bring any sense to the matter - King Maric. Before he'd operated in shadows, thinking that he needed to keep his interest secret, but he doesn't want to die without anyone knowing, or understanding. He could die well before he found out anything. Let them hear the story, and know.  
  
The Crows had taken his father, locked him up, and then someone had set him free. The Crows were merely a tool wielded by someone else, and yet, the starting point for him. The details, nothing made sense to him. It was as if he were left only the memory of a breadcrumb trail to follow. In every city, at every stop, they searched for information. Some places got the full story, and some got a carefully rehearsed lie, but all of them knew, they were looking for an important Fereldan.  
  
Varric looked around at the table, and found that most of the pub had gone quiet listening to his tale. The hard, blue-green eyes of the surface woman were still on him, and she was the first to speak.  
  
"How do we know that's all true?" She asked.  
  
"Madam, you wound me! I may have taken a few liberties with some of the more intimate details, but I assure you, the story itself is nothing but the truth."  
  
Isabela came over to him and nodded at the door. Alistair had just entered, inconspicuous with a large, hooded cloak drawn over him, but the way he walked was unmistakable. It had been a good night, Varric's storytelling impeccable, but he knew that he'd be needed elsewhere. Sighing, he stood up and looked regretfully down at the dwarven woman who had so intrigued and challenged him.  
  
He was grateful to her, even if she didn't really like the story, because she'd given him the chance to tell it. With each telling, he made a little more and a little less sense of it, but mostly, it gave the Warden a way to track them if this went sideways, which it was almost guaranteed to do. Varric liked the thought of the Warden following them, buxom dwarven beauty with shining brown hair flying out behind her as she kept an eye on her love, but not if it meant they were in need of saving.  
  
"I'll be seeing you around. Maybe next time you'll find my stories more to your liking." He said, though he knew they would likely never come back to this no name bar in a city he couldn't remember.  
  
With that, he and Isabela left, ducking out just after Alistair had slid from their midst. They caught up with him outside, the heavy wooden door slamming shut behind them. Inside the woman shook her head, disbelieving the tale she'd wasted her night listening to. All the dwarven merchants were liars and tricksters in her experience, every single one of them. She'd just listened to the biggest pile of shite she'd ever heard.  
  
Shrouded in darkness with his hood low over his face, King Alistair was unrecognizable. His voice was quiet as he spoke. "Nothing?" He asked, the one word question loaded with cautious hope.  
  
Varric hated to disappoint him, but he shook his head ruefully. "Not a thing. Sorry, Your Majesty, but these people haven't seen your father. Hell, they barely even believed my story. Had they seen anything, someone in the crowd would have reacted. We should move on before word gets out that I was here."  
  
Isabela spoke up. "I didn't hear much about the Crows either, other than the local washerwoman superstitions. 'Speak of the Crows and you'll summon them', that sort of thing. They haven't been here yet, or it was so long ago no one remembers."  
  
"Or no one wants to say anything." Alistair said, barely holding the bitterness out of his voice.  
  
"I didn't get that impression, well, at least I didn't get the impression that they were scared. Back to the ship, then?" Isabela asked. Her ship was docked on the river nearby, restocking while Varric wove his tale. They were moving quickly in the darkness, searching for hints anywhere and everywhere they could.  
  
No one spoke again, but they all followed Isabela away from the bar, and onto the next leg of their journey. Their information was drying up, and they couldn't waste any more time. With or without the help of the people they met, they were going to have to face whatever lay ahead for them one of these days.  
  
In Denerim, the Hero of Ferelden looked out a window, towards the vast and endless waves of the Amaranthine Ocean, where she'd wished Alistair well on his journey. Teagan stood next to her, and though they both said nothing, she knew that they shared the same thoughts - hoping that Alistair was still well. With him gone, the realm lay in Teagan's rather reluctant hands, with her advising. After a while, Teagan spoke.  
  
"Maker willing, perhaps we'll hear word from him tomorrow, my lady. It's another day."  
  
Marinelle smiled. "It is." She said, and with a final look out the window, added quietly, "Stone preserve you, my love."

[ ](http://minorearth.tumblr.com/post/36135955471/everybodys-got-a-story-a-fanmix-for-one-last)


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